Waaaaa, I’ve gained weight. But who doesn’t throw on a nice Crisco trenchcoat between the ages of 35 and 39? Meth heads? Good point. Like most modern dudes of my ilk, I’m not doing traditional manly stuff like nation building and wench buying. Back in our heyday, we could get fat and just be the sloppy kings who spill food into our ruffles. Now self-respect, at least for me, has more to do with looking decent (which is honestly the best I can do) than the size of the blonde babe’s rack on the back of my motorcycle. I’m not saying that doesn’t matter, but Lindsay has brown hair, and I don’t have a motorcycle because they’re super dangerous you guys!
When my parents were here over the holidays, my dad introduced us to juicing (you can read about that here), but he also made steaks, pasta, and various other mounds of stuff which we all jammed into our chewers. Does anyone else have the brain malfunction that causes them not to know when they’re full from pasta? It’s like I have Prader Willi Syndrome, but only for penne.
The benefits of juicing only come if you aren’t also eating bags of cookies, coffee cakes, and 11pm triple decker PB&Js. Basically, I was pouring juice onto a giant pile of starch that was already filling my stomach. “Here, pile of stuff, have some celery water.” I wasn’t feeling healthier, or losing weight. I also didn’t have that mental clarity they say comes from juicing, but that might be the type 8 Diabetes I was developing. I’m not a fat pig, but I felt like one. Let me put it this way: When I land after jumping (which I do rarely), there’s a slight rippling effect. I need to get rid of that because, well, like I said, I don’t have a motorcycle, an axe, wenches or a business card that reads “Executive Vice President.”
Lindsay and I are taking the juicing seriously now by not combining it with pastrami sandwiches. I didn’t anticipate how hard it would be with so much amazing kids’ food around all the time. Last night, I wanted to steal Silas’ mac & cheese and run down the street eating it so no one could stop me. Dieting before included ridding the house of bad foods, but if we throw away the Pirate Booty, Arlo has nothing to eat (he loves Pirate Booty, and yes, we give him apples and other stuff like apples.)
After everyone’s gone to bed, I’m left with Netflix and a pantry full of gummy bears, crackers, and chocolate cookies in the shape of bunnies. It’s like an immunity challenge on The Biggest Loser and I’m faced with choosing between a commitment I made to myself, and the immediate gratification of sugary things made by evil corporations to manipulate the pleasure centers in our brain. I stand there in my slippers with a remote control in one hand and an apple in the other, staring at the cheese curls, cursing them with my eyes.
By the way, all this “junk” we have is from Whole Foods, so we’re still great parents.
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