Make the Cos Proud

Look, I am going to Mexico in seven weeks. So I have seven weeks to get a least a little less jiggle in my jello. Ryan says, “Who cares? You’ll be with me. I love you.” But he misses the point entirely. I am a deadline-driven person. I need a goal to motivate me. I have seven weeks to see what I can do to shrink my large thighs so I feel at least a little cute when spending 4 days on the beach with a margarita in my hand.

I know I should diet, but that is so hard because I live with the human eating machine. I know I should give up alcohol because it is full of empty calories, but I do not want to have to kill people here at work. I looked into doing Gwyneth Paltrow’s “cleanse” yesterday, but that shit is $350.00. I don’t have that kind of extra cash lying around and if I did, I would buy new FLOR tiles for the living room in my quest for my "Revolutionary Road" mid-century modern redo.

So I started running in earnest last Saturday, and have been diligent about it this week. The thing is I already feel better, am sleeping better, and am more cheerful. I do not know WHY I forget this stuff when I am laying on the couch moaning in misery.

Get thee off the couch and work up a sweat! It is a natural mood lifter. While I have not reached that mythical point of “endorphin rush” yet, I am enjoying myself and enjoying that I can run further each day without wanting to die. Or pull a Tonya Harding on one of the petite things in their cute workout gear that pass me while chatting on their cell phones.

I have been taking the Brucester with me to the rail-trail Robert E. Lee because it is shady and soft and we can tromp in the water when he gets hot. The only downside to this is that it takes fully two hours with him as opposed to one hour of working out if I was by myself. That is a big chunk of time out of my evening. But I feel so guilty if I am lacing up my running shoes with the intent of going without him. Ryan says I shouldn’t, that he is happy regardless, but that is one of the main reasons I got a dog. I wanted a running partner, somebody who could make the monotony of running a little less so... monotonous.

Bruce KNOWS what putting on my tennis shoes means. It means we’re going for a walk ohmygosh we’re going for a walk HOLY COW I can’t stand how awesome it is THAT WE ARE GOING FOR A WALK!!!! He gets so excited, but does not get in the way while I lace up, he stands there watching, panting patiently, even if he is about to burst with joy. The one time I left to go for a run without him he stood at the front door, staring at me with dejection. And no, I am not anthropomorphizing my dog here. He was deeee-pressed.

Therefore, I have resolved myself to spending two hours an evening at the park with the dog, sweating and getting stinky creek water on me every day. And the best part is that he likes me more than Ryan this week. Although I am leaving this afternoon for West Virginia without him, so by the time I get back Sunday, he’ll be Ryan’s bitch again. That fickle turd.