I go to the gym every day. I see all these hotties-with-bodies sweating, pumping iron, flexing in the mirror, and there I am in my green tye-dyed baggy shirt looking like a twelve-year-old boy(?) that got lost on the playground. One time when I swiped in, the lady at the front desk just stared at me with a big smile and a loss for words. I said “Hello,” but she just nodded with a shit-eating grin, as if she’d seen the most adorable little baby. When my roommate swiped in right behind me, she said to him, “He is just so cute.” Thanks a lot Gym Manager Lady, I’d slap you across the face but I need to save all my energy for the pair of 7lb. dumbbells that I’m about to make my bitch.
How long does it take before I see results, huh? I’ve been going for about three weeks straight. By now I was expecting to look like a pasty mini-me version of the uber-fit Mike Chang from Glee, or at worst at least pass as a Finn body double. But no, I still look like that cracked-out leprechaun on the Lucky Charms boxes. What gives?
Realizing that tomorrow is September, I start pondering the reasons why, regardless of my routine workouts, my summer six never came to fruition. I put down my third donut of the day hesitantly, as if it might try to escape, and write down some possible explanations:
- Genetics. My family is a long line of short, squat, fuzzy people with slow metabolisms and nowhere to store weight. When you don’t grow up, you start growing out. It’s just a fact of life.
- Drugs. Everyone in Hollywood is beautiful and skinny. What else do they have in common? Dietitians, nutritionists, personal trainers… oh and cocaine. Unfortunately for me, all of these things are just too expensive. Instead, I drink a four pack of Redbull and wait for my urine to glow in the dark.
- Plastic Surgery. Boy would I give anything to have a doctor shove a fat sucker into my ham thighs and drain the gravy out.
Once I finished my list of possibilities, I inhale the rest of my donut in two furious bites and then make my way to the kitchen to see what other wonderful, sugar-coated goodies I can find. I’m feeling something with peanut butter. For protein.
And then it hits me like a ton of bricks:
The other side of the office had Baja Fresh for lunch today. There might be churros in there!
I charge into the kitchen like a herd of elephants fleeing from ivory poachers, except in this scenario the ivory poachers equal what could be my healthy, happy, unashamed self, and the herd of fleeing elephants equals me in need of deep-fried dough covered in sugar and cinnamon (I know, I already ate donuts today. But churros are different from donuts because… Mexico.)
I turn the corner and, voilà! There they are, sitting on the kitchen counter in a beautiful aluminum take-out tray. CHURROS! I hear church bells go off as I approach The Glory, so I pull my phone from my pocket and silence the call. Whoever thinks they can interrupt this moment is obviously someone I shouldn’t be associating with.
It is at this moment that I black out, only to come back to several moments later. The churros are completely gone, but I’m covered from head to toe in greasy cinnamon and I smell like Disneyland during peak season.
I’ve figured out my problem: I have an uncontrollable sweet tooth.
I panic at this horrible epiphany and instinctively knock back a double helping of fun-size Milky Ways to calm myself down.
So here I am, stuck between a Whopper and a Charleston Chew. It’s been a long time coming. Working a job where your food is catered and the kitchen is always stocked with sugary delights, it’s only a matter of time before you cave. I trick myself into thinking I’m being good by ordering a salad for lunch, but then I sneak off into the kitchen mid-afternoon and slam my head face-down into an ice cream cake, or fruit pie, or whatever-the-fuck delicious treat is out to ruin me that day. Something has to be done.
I will not sit idly by watching everyone around me at the gym get lean and toned while I continue to lose control and motorboat various fruit pastries. Besides, those gym rats and I aren’t so different after all. They do bicep curls until they sweat; I curl up and eat twinkies until I sweat. Some work out so hard they get nauseous. I binge eat so hard that I have to put my sweat pants on. We really do share a lot of the same qualities: hard work, determination, and up-tempo iPod playlists. I just have to stop putting the Chariots of Fire theme song on while I’m slamming a whole container of Trader Joe’s peanut butter cups and instead listen to it when I’m in the same vicinity as a treadmill.
So tomorrow, when I go in to work, I am walking directly into the office kitchen and throwing the box of donuts into the garbage. If I can’t enjoy them, nobody will. This may sound selfish, but you’ll all be thanking me in a couple months when I look fucking good. Until then, we all have to suffer. Group effort.
