If anyone needs me I’ll be on the treadmill.
Let’s just say my nutrition hasn’t always been the epitome of perfection. This coming from a woman who, at each Easter, takes every opportunity to ask her husband to bring her home a peanut butter egg. He dotingly brings home a six-pack, beaming from ear to ear. “To last you through the week,” he says sheepishly when I give him the Ican’tbelieveyouthinkIcaneatallthese look. Six for the week. Um. Yeah.
Anyway. It’s Saturday morning and I head to confessional (a.k.a. the Dreadmill) early. Six-thirty a.m. to be exact. And, as I pop in my ear-buds and set out at a comfortable pace of 3.0 mph, I have a vague recollection of that no-bake cookie I had a couple nights ago. Also the “sampling” of the one I had on Friday along with the couple of spoonfuls of peanut butter straight from the jar. I bump my speed up to a more respectable 4.5 after a mere tenth of a mile.
There’s something seriously wrong with a person who listens to songs about buttermilk biscuits and the glorifications of a big butt while she’s working out, but I convince myself it’s motivational and plow on.
Excuse me a minute while I confess my food-sins to my heart rate monitor.
As long as I’m confessing, let’s be honest here. It’s not just about the chocolate. There’s the ice cream cookie sandwich I talked myself into indulging in last week, reasoning that I was only having half. Never mind that the half was the size of my fist. The dinner roll that’s not so good for a carb-counter such as myself. The croutons. The ever-so-small helping of mashed potatoes.
I’m coming into mile four and The Black-Eyed Peas cause me to step up the pace to 6.5 and with it comes the blood, sweat and tears. Okay, maybe just the sweat and tears are visible but the blood is pounding in my ears. I’ve got one more mile to go and I think maybe, just maybe I’ve worked off the celebratory dinner for my husband’s birthday, but I’ve still got to account for the movie popcorn with extra butter, thank you very much, that I had late last night.
I muster up my remaining bit of energy and dive into the last few minutes with gusto.
As Guns-n-Roses belt out “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door”, and the signal of my cool-down period, I ponder on how fitting the song is because I feel. Like I’m going. To die. I just hope I’m absolved.