snip snip tuck

Yesterday was one of my bosses' birthdays. [I work in a law firm, as an associate. Thus, I have a lot of bosses]. In celebration of his birth, his assistant provided a feast of calories [otherwise known as cookies and brownies and snack mix and candy and fruity bread oh my]. Aside from the one mini-pack of Sweet Tarts I snagged, I managed to walk by this caloric spread 20,000 times yesterday without deviation [his office is near mine; his assistant's spread was placed just steps from my door...] and I. was. so. proud. of. myself.

Then. Today, I come to work, only to discover she has placed the leftovers back out again. As if having to walk by temptation for 10 straight hours yesterday wasn't enough?! Who does she think I am? Gandhi!?! Oy. I can hardly stand to get a glass of water today and risk walking by the sweets and salt and yumminess... I swear those day-old brownies ARE TALKING TO ME. Temptation is a cruel cruel guest.

On a related note, last night I asked The Fiancé if I could have plastic surgery...someday. Just a tummy tuck; we're not talking facial reconstruction here. The thought occurred [not for the first time] when I was in the locker room at my gym, having just completed my obligatory strength routine, followed by a 4.5 mile run [go me!]. I caught sight of myself in the mirror as I attempted to regain normal-coloring in my face [in other words, I prayed the bright red face would diminish so I wouldn't look like I was about to have a heart attack...] Despite the punishment I'd just inflicted on my body and the countless calories I'd surely burned, my stomach refused to accurately reflect what I think it should look like. Yet, a thought occurred to me: this is the best it's gonna get. I'm at my lowest body-fat-percentage since my college soccer-playing days... I am shirking evil-brownies-who-are-calling-my-name... and still there is that stomach staring back at me, mocking the crunches I inflict upon it. Clearly age and children are not going to make this situation better... Thus, my inquiry to The Fiancé: tummy tuck maybe?!

Being the astute man he is, he conceded the decision is mine. Then outlined the reasons for my absurdity and even managed to inflict a good dose of Catholic guilt ("Why would you risk something so unnecessary?")

Did I mention I'm an attorney? I remind You of this as an explanation for how and why I was able to quickly digest and discard his arguments. Until he stumbled across something I hadn't considered: I am more obsessed with my physique lately simply because of the amount of time I'm spending focused on it in my quest to obtain 30-year-old perfection. When, by contrast, I've spent my time in less healthful endeavors (sitting on couch, eating cookies, etc...) as a matter of course, I've hardly cared what my stomach looks like. (And, bless his little heart, he claimed he loves both versions of me- the slob and the obsessor).

Which begs the question: maybe I just shouldn't work out at all. Then I'd be satisfied... maybe even happy... with the mirror's imperfect reflection...

Now about those brownies...

chivalry is dead

Dear Man on The L,

This weekend I suffered the first known injury of my engagement.

Picture a beautiful day... high 70s, sunny... Imagine You live a mere 1.3 miles from beautiful Lake Michigan. Then insert The Fiancé, eager to join You on a nice little run to the lake and back. Off You go, high on adreline because You are IN SHAPE, You are RUNNING ON A SATURDAY, You look good in those Nike shorts! You are having WITTY CONVERSATION without being out of breath. This is the life!!! That is, at least, until 10 minutes later and two blocks from Your home, when You suffer an unfortunate incident with a curb and the displacement of Your foot off said curb. Result: a lovely little twisted ankle (picture: puffy and purple and not at all bride-like), and a Saturday afternoon shot to hell. Adrenaline is replaced with depression: how will You ever become Buff Bride when the heavens are aligned against You like this?!

Thankfully after two days of RICE (rest, ice, compression and elevation, per Dr. Fiancé), I feel much better. That is, I did feel much better, until I embarked on the bane of my existence in order to return to work: The L.

One would think when You're a healthy 25 year old male with a seat on the L and You see an old hag (a/k/a Your's truly) with an ACE bandage on her ankle, You'd give up your seat before she falls on her arse, but nooooo..... Let her wobble around in uncertain safety for 25 bloody minutes. Right in front of You.

Anyway, I really hope You (read: Mr.-won't-give-up-seat-to-the-handicapped) have a great day.

xoxo,
Gimpy

stalking evangeline lilly

First I was going to post the pic to the left as an example of an absolutely perfect gown {that could even be a wedding gown if You were glamorous and didn't mind 'sexy' being one of the adjectives to describe You on Your big day - neither of which describes me}. Then I was going to post the pic to the right as an example of the hair style I would love to rock on my big day {if I were carefree and effortless..and brunette...none of which I am, at least today}.

Then I decided to hell with it: I don't want the dress or the hair. I want the body, the skin, the hair and the access to incredible fashion. Is that so much to ask? Note to self: must find new job STAT. Perferrably one involving less document review and more Emmy party invites.

feel the burn

After a weekend of too much consumption and not enough exercise, I'm feeling more like this:

...and less like the buff bride I am aiming to be. Thus, my Monday resolution: back to the gym we go!

I just wish there was some magic potion I could take that equaled toned tummy without food deprivation and sweat inducement. I've been depressed ever since my 105 lb, 17% body fat personal trainer told me that "the days of being able to eat whatever you want and undo it with a hard work out are over." Crap. Really?!? So, what, I replied, am I supposed to do? Her response: "Eat less."

Ha! Good one. But no, seriously...