I haven’t run yet in 2012, but I want to — much like I want a luckdragon or tiny geisha feet. I’ve been living at the intersection of Good Intentions and Low Expectations for about a month now. What, it’s warm here.
Every time I want to run, I belly-crawl to the fridge instead — though, happily, not for the usual crap. The foods I’m eating are healthy, even in Claim Jumper portions. Butternut squash, quinoa, kale, broccoli, apples, eggs, polenta, Brussels sprouts. Paula Deen would be horrified.
We’ve been doing yoga at home, too — or rather, using our new TV for good, and not just Downton Abbey or Revenge. My next step is to find a Zumba file to download somewhere; I cannot wait to pound on the ceiling of our jerky downstairs neighbors. Hopefully the sound of my wildebeest feet doing sloppy Brazilian dance aerobics will make them and their crappy dog and equally crappy white-guy rap music move far away.
Besides the odd pizza (Pagliacci’s!) or trip to Super Deli Mart, I’ve been doing okay with portion control and food intake (okay, except for one day last week where I had butter, Brie, and bread for breakfast and lunch — that was an arteries-clogging Wednesday, whooboy). I probably had a month of wintry, carb-focused depression eating, but snapped out of it like a shot when we had that week of sun. Vitamin D is a miracle worker! We went for walks, ate well, slept good, and kept a low profile. What I wouldn’t give for another week of that. Hopefully before September.
The plan is to walk and do yoga until March 1, then the running begins. I really do enjoy it — well, how I feel afterward, anyway — it’s just difficult to do when you’re carrying a Samoan caboose around. That reminds me of a time an ex said to me, “Goddamn! You just have an ASS.” To which I replied, “Thank you and/or fuck you.” His tone was complimentary but the delivery died a horrible death, as did our relationship a few weeks later. I didn’t cry, but he did. Maybe he cried over the loss of so much booty.
I won’t cry if I lose any of it, though I’m loath to be one of those women with a flat, square behind. Give me Beyoncé or J.Lo any day of the week. Trunk junk is where it’s at.