I was a bad boy this summer. Mexican food – as in chimichangas. Lots of beer. Lots of bar food. And all summer, UDF (what Cincinnatians go to instead of 7/11) sold these Cracker Jack chocolate-covered snack bags for about $2 a pop. Oh, yes. I made a few trips across the street.
I also stopped running in June. I had school.
Two nights a week. It interfered with my running the other five days a week.
It worked just fine at the beginning of the year. I knew my schedule back in December and had a flexible daily running plan through the end of April. We can’t blame New Year’s resolutions. Those always die in February. I know. I used to go to a gym, fight with all the new true believers for treadmill and weight space the first two weeks of January and have the place almost to myself by the beginning of March.
No, I just didn’t plan ahead. And I told myself, “Hey, I’ve lost 20 pounds. I can relax a little.”
I could. Very little. I started snacking too much. I didn’t even take a walk, the easiest exercise to do.
Then the evil bunny came, the evil cellulitis bunny. And in the hospital, they gave me my numbers. Meanwhile, my coworkers gave me a fruit bowl. DId I need anymore hints?
Well, yes. My doctor says, “Your numbers aren’t bad. But they need to be better. Why can’t they be like you had them last spring?”
I’m typing this on Monday night after having a bunch of bar food, but I spent Sunday behaving myself. Still, some mornings, I look at the fruit bowl and think, “I really don’t feel like a pear this morning. I’ll grab some coffee cake on the way in to work.”
Um, no. Suck it up, bubba. Time to eat healthy. And take a walk, you lazy bum.