Monday, February 25, 2008

Too Poetic Not To Share

Another email to a friend that I just have to post:

I was a very good girl tonight.
I went to the new gym to meet the new guy for the second time, was not deterred by the slightly still sore enough to notice knee or that I didn't have any socks in my gym bag or that I sliced the ever liven out of the side of my thumb searching for spare socks under my car seat. I marched myself right into the gym, cleaned up the blood splatters on the cuff of my shirt, wrapped it in a paper towel, and went down to meet my guy. The front desk chick looked confused. "Did you have an appointment? Did he call you??"
Life happens I suppose, but knowing that the precident was to call everyone in his appointment book and tell them he has a funeral to go to, and knowing I gave him my number and he put it next to my name in the book, well, I'm hoping he flipped to the wrong page and I'm set for next week because it's starting to get offensive.
As I'd had it set to walk off some energy tonight, I went home for a bandaid and some suitable socks, changed my coat for my gym sweatshirt, and headed to my other gym. I expected a wait for a machine, but I also wanted to catch the eye of the trainers to see what miscommunication I can rectify so that I get someone to work out with again. Happily, I caught the eye of a girl just getting off a machine and hopped on without a glance to any strays lingering in hopes of such a marvelous feat of using what they pay for =)
30 minutes later I could feel the peering of watchful eyes and removed myself and my sore knee from harms way and found a quiet corner to stretch in.
Noticing the clock, I maneuvered my way to the rows of desks, finally ending up at the front desk asking for My Head Gymrat. A very chipper conversation with the dude and his flippy hair tells me that privacy of phone numbers means nothing, leaving on time is a rarity, and that I was SOL for getting someone to pull up a schedule and fit me in, though the gym was filled to 85% capacity when I asked, not one of those people could be of service to me.
Alright, I can take a hint, and I decided that since I'd be icing my knee for good measure when I came home anyway, I wouldn't wait in line for a treadmill with the guy who just irrately berated my Mr. Flippy Do for not having staff monitoring the 20minute rule of Too Many Customers Need Cardio Machines Time Limit.
So, I get in the car, turned up the be-bop-ish tune on the radio, and end up in a much more sour mood by the end of the 15 minute commute. "Never fear, food is near!" I tell myself, and don't even take off my shoes as I poured myself some salad and sliced half a chicken breast to top it.

It had hit me as I passed a little haunt up the street. I'd thought about it as I passed by the 3 pizza joints on the way home. I didn't flinch at the left hand turn lane like I sometimes do, but I nearly turned around 3 blocks later for it. I'm convinced my closest spot is the worst to go to, but now, the desire is quite heavy and I may make due. It's the craving for a beer. Not the alcohol buzz, not something cool to drink, not the foul breath afterward... I've tried convincing myself it's because I got too hungry with all the running around and then a more-strenuous-than-expected cardio run, but even as I sit with my protein and my huge pile of salad I want more to eat. Maybe it's the bubbles I want, to quiet the sour-all-day stomach that I'm afraid I might have to blame on the water. Perhaps it's just the habit of having a stressful day and consoling it with a familiar taste. Or, maybe I'm just that hungry and dehydrated so liquid with calories is just the ticket I'm looking for to board the train to silenced harrassments and easy dreams.
Whatever it is, this is the plight of the just a little too fat. It's these choices, I fear, the ones that are so little but daily, the difference between one beer with dinner or not, that are going to make or break my ability to take on this challenge and win it. As any clever temptress, however, these cravings hit me when I'm weak of mind and spirit, gripping me hard and relentlessly holding tight to at least part of my consciousness as I try to move through the motions of finding anything to do besides stuffing my face. Are these signs of a Foodie, and Alcoholic, or someone who's just hungry and worn out?


curmudgeon said...

Gee whiz. I'm aghast. Beer doesn't need an explanation or a justification.

Miss Sassy said...

See how fretarded I get? I'm even questioning beer!!!!
Chicks, whadayagunnado?