It started with Blueberry Scones. Delicious. And more than 300 calories each.
Later it was my first real Dr. Pepper. It’s been weeks. Months, even?
Last night, my well-meaning and loving friends took me out for an early birthday celebration at Dave and Buster’s. Don’t know Dave and Buster? Imagine ChuckECheese without a ball pit and with a fully stocked bar.
I was introduced to watermelon margaritas. As far as I can tell, you replace the triple sec with watermelon pucker. Tasty. And went down so smooth. All three of them. And the strawberry mudslide. And the shot that the bartender put together when he found out we were there for my birthday.
That was after the sliders. With no “special sauce” and only half my fries. But nary a vegetable to be seen. Oh and fried cheese.
And skeeball. Silent Scope. Guitar Hero. That skeeball-like horse racing game. Elvis and the coins. Live action boxing.
Not to mention my five really great friends who continually make me laugh until I (just about) (and sometimes do) wet myself.
I am blessed.
And still fat. My scale says that I have gained 3 pounds from Thursday afternoon and I don’t believe that to be true. I’m sure it was all the booze…sweet, sweet booze…and salt. And lack of sleep. Because of course my littles were up at the crack of dawn. And while tequila and I get along famously in the dark, much like the walk of shame, we are not so much into each other in the light of day. Argh.
I think my eyeballs are still swollen from this neat-o headache.
The headache that not even an apple fritter the size of my skull could tame. Or the cup of coffee.
And a nap? Fail. The littles were up for the day with no nap in sight. And, they were a bored mess.
I tried to get a few afternoon Zs but they thwarted that in a hurry. It started with simple fighting over the Front of TV position and ended with them making a “Snack mix” of Lucky Charms, sliced strawberries, (organic) peanut butter and cheese rice cakes. In the living room. And when stirring with a cereal spoon didn’t work, they used their hands.
At least they ate it.
So then it’s after 5. And the gym childcare closes at 6. So there will be no going to the gym.
I ask the simple question, What should I make for dinner?
They put on their telepathy hats and say, in unison, “McDonalds.”
To which I reply Get your shoes.
We drive five miles. They fling themselves at the mercy of McDonalds and holler directly to the cooks that they want chicken nuggets. I make them get milk. You know, HFCS and all.
“Is that all?” the punk behind the counter says.
I make a huffy breath. And a quarter pounder with cheese, no mustard.
“Is that a value meal?”
Huffy breath again. Sure.
I sit the littles down with their milks and go to get ketchup (loaded with HFCS) and my drink. I put ice in my cup and the cup? Fell under the Coke. I intended to get iced tea and ended up with Coke.
Now, I’m not one to waste perfectly good food. So…I might have drank it all.
When I ate my whole cheeseburger. And all my fries. And some of Amelia’s.
But then my cup was empty. So I dump out the ice and get new. So as not to contaminate the iced tea. And my cup fell under the Dr. Pepper.
Damn. Double Fail.
I feel like my heart might explode. And I have every right to be forced into my fat pants for the next 2 weeks undoing an entire weekend of food related debauchery.
The thing is that I know how hard I have to work to burn it all off. That cheeseburger? 550 calories. That is a full 45 minutes of hard-core Molly ass kicking. Was it worth it?
No. My guts are still sore. My lack of gallbladder hates, hates, hates that much fat at one time. I once ate a tenderloin that revolted on my insides for a full 8 hours. True story.
It would be so easy to quit now. To call in my cancellation to the gym. To say that I’m going to walk with the kids and then come up with an excuse not to do it. And go back to my nutty bars and my lazyboy and my vanilla vodkas and my sweet baby Dr. Pepper.
I would disappoint myself. So I won’t. I can’t. I can’t un-know what I know now. Or something like that.
If I had a paddle, I’d head back to the bank of that shit creek in my failboat.
But I’m all out of paddles.