Tuesday, March 27, 2012

388 Days - One Hundred Twenty-Eight Pounds

One Hundred Twenty-Eight Pounds.  

That’s what the scale showed this morning when I woke up today at 5:20 am.  

Fifty-Eight (point) Zero Five Nine Eight Two Three Four Kilograms.  

That’s for my science nerd followers and friends overseas.  

Two Thousand Forty-Eight Ounces.  

For the bartenders in the room. What’s up, Paulie!  

Fifty-Eight Million Fifty-Nine Thousand Eight Hundred Twenty-Three (point) One Zero Four Milligrams.

Because metric.conversions.org is saved in my favorites. So?

What this nonsense means comes down to this: You can accomplish what you set out to do, so stop making excuses and telling yourself that you can’t. You have kids? I have kids! See... we’re like, already the same person! You work? I work, too! Owe Ehm Gee, we should totally play Bunco! I’m sure I’ll lose a few “friends” over this write but it’s time I got tough y’all. Did I … just…? Oh God friggin’ help me. 9 years down south is melting my brain like fresh fried chicken fat. I mean, YO! Youze listen up! Stop complaining about your bodies, dammit, and start doing the right things to it! Stop telling yourself that you accept the way you look and then cry every time you have to put a dress on to go to a wedding. Stop grouping yourself in with the big-bottom girls club and picking on the skinny bitches on blogs and FB pages, ‘cause we don’t like it, and we’re honestly really nice people. Most of us. Some of us. Myself excluded. Anyway, stop saying “ugh”, “whatever”, and cursing at me every time I post a picture. I work hard for this body and I’m pretty f*cking proud to show it off, so suck it up or hit the “hide” button if you haven’t already, ‘cause more’s a comin’ y’all!

The time is now. Your time, is now. You have kids, right? You want to see them grow up, have kids of their own and wipe the poop off your butt? THEN START EATING RIGHT. You want to retire to Majorca and walk up to the top of the cliff overlooking the Mediterranean without having to bring a tent and pajamas with you because it will take you four nights to do so? THEN GET YOUR ASS ON A TREADMILL. You want to live to see your fourth husband graduate from college? THEN PUT THE KRISPY KREME DOWN! I’m not young, gang. You know how old I am. You’ve been reading this thing. I’m not independently wealthy. I don’t have a sugar daddy. And I can be downright f*cking lazy, but I like my health and my life and my long term outlook much, much, much more than I like that cheesesteak right there, no matter how incredibly awesomely scrumptious it looks. Okay, maybe just a bi… NO! No, no, no… no, no…I will resist. I can resist. I must resist.  I SHALL RESIST.

‘Cause Majorca is waiting.

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