So, here I go again… Although I am under daily remnants and reminders of Snowmageddon 2015, Spring is almost here. No surprises; it is the same every year. Somehow, in the midst of all the ugliness of Winter, comes the green of Spring. Poetry aside, it is what it is. Winter comes and goes, and with it goes the cold, and in comes the warm. No need to dwell on it, as I used to tell my mom when she complained about the cold in her bones. Some how, by some miracle, Spring comes, every single year. It is why until recently, I have wanted to remain on the East coast. The change of seasons is beautiful; the leaves of fall, the greens of spring, and the icicles of winter all make up the tapestry by which I have always described my life. I may not always remember the year, but I can always tell you the season that something happened. I remember I was warm when he left… I remember it was cold when I got my new car, and the snow covered the beautiful cranberry color. And just as I complain every year about the cold, wishing it was warm, every summer, I am wishing it was cold again. By the time Labor Day drags around, and I am complaining about the heat and humidity, and my frizzy hair, I make myself the same promise. By NEXT SUMMER, I will have gotten myself into shape. I will enjoy the beautiful beach. I will wear clothing that allows me to enjoy the warmth of the summer.
This summer, once again failing to keep the promise I make myself, I am buying a beach burka. I am going to wear that large piece of fabric and lay on the beach, forgiving myself for all of the guilt induced chocolate bars, and extra portions I consumed. I am going to try to NOT be angry with myself for not keeping the yearly promise. Somehow, I forgive myself the requirement to make a New Year’s Resolution. I do not believe in setting myself up for failure, so I do not bother. But when it comes to this damn summer promise, I fail every year, and end up with one more reason to beat myself up emotionally.
Apparently, now there is a recognized disease called B.E.D., with a celebrity spokesperson, Monica Seles, and with a prescription medication for binge eaters. Really? As if we now need to make ourselves feel worse about eating when we are upset. We now have a new disease that needs to be medicated. We are not reasonably stressed, or sad, or abused. We are some sort of obsessive compulsive messes that require medication to numb the feelings that made us reach for the candy, instead of something else that might be more productive. We are sick. Sick, we are. Medicate us again.
Chatting with BFF yesterday, we discussed all the ways we could potentially make up for the lost time. There had to be a program that we could try. How to attain your ideal body, while sleeping, in under 15 minutes per day. Not likely… So, should be attempt to get through P90X again? Not likely. I have to work a few jobs now to pay the bills. Maybe I should just raise my arms up and down, and do squats as I binge eat to relieve the stress. Does that count?
Then, as if to make things worse, and to reinforce all the exercise I have NOT been doing this winter, the powers that be at Match, decide to send this as an ideal man for me. First of all, where are his pants?? Second of all, look at those lovely legs?!?! Clearly, he is not busy with multiple jobs, taking care of multiple children, and seeking doctors to treat him with medication for his binge eating?!?!?!
Those legs will haunt me. (I added the pink arrows for effect.) They tease me to remind me of the wonderful effects of diet and exercise. Slim and toned, proud of their existence. Whatever. No sir, you are not for me. I cannot date a man who has nicer legs than I do. Those legs are, however, slightly inspirational. After all, the ground hog did see his shadow. I think that means that there are six more weeks of winter. Six more weeks of opportunity? Maybe. Maybe, just maybe, I can have legs like Mr. Wonderful.