Over the last few weeks I haven't been feeling all that well in general and, as a result, my eating habits have gone straight down the toilet. Figuratively, of course. I haven't planned any meals (too tired), haven't done any serious grocery shopping (too tired) and have been eating way too much fast food (cooking? Hah!). Do I even need to bring you the news from the exercise front?
Although I am too afraid to step on the scale and see the official damages, I know it is bad. Very bad. I am pushing the limits on the smaller size pants I have been wearing and developing quite a little muffin top. There is FAT creeping up around my bra strap. It is ugly. Very ugly. So that's the background, now here's the story.
Mr. Jelly Belly and I bowl on Thursday nights on a league made up of people he works with and assorted family members thereof. It is a fun league and low pressure.
Now this Thursday I think I was at the height of hating the cow I was turning myself back into. I had sworn over and over that I would never be fat again. And yet, here it was. I was bloated and headachy and disgusted with life in general and myself in particular. My favorite black t-shirt that once comfortably and, dare I say, attractively, molded itself to my reasonably flat stomach (and nary a muffin top in sight) was too tight when I put it on before bowling Thursday night. And I looked huge. But I was forced to wear it because I had to go directly to bowling from work and that was the only top I had with me.
I imagined people laughing at me behind my back about the large amount of weight I'd managed to regain. This did not motivate me. This made me want to eat a bacon cheeseburger and chili fries. Which I didn't, so don't worry.
So anyway...on to the motivation from unexpected sources. The team we were bowling against had an absent bowler, so a kid who works with them (same employer, but they don't work directly together) decided to come in and sub. Now, I say "kid" because I'm old, but he was probably in his mid to late 20's. Cute kid. And when I say "cute" I mean cute personality. Although he was cute physically, too. For a kid.
We bowl the first two games and everything's going along fine. I have a couple of brief conversations with the kid - much like I would with my own kids or their friends - light and casual, meaningless conversation. You know the kind.
So in the third frame of the last game, the kid just sits down, takes his shoes off and announces that he has to leave now, his girlfriend is coming to pick him up. Just like that. Weird, right? The other team was not amused. Much reconfiguring of scores and handicaps goes on and we finally finish the game.
As we were sitting around draining the remainder of our adult beverages and rehashing the odd behavior of the kid, a guy from the other team, who is about the same age as us, turns to Mr. Jelly Belly and say, "I literally had to stop that kid from hitting on your wife. He told me about four times how hot he thought she was. That's why I introduced you to him, thinking it might make him shut up about it." Mr. Jelly Belly just laughs, but I was flabbergasted. Totally flabbergasted.
I say something about how I'm 50 years old, for pete's sake. Mr. Jelly Belly quickly reminds me that I still have a few months to go and the other guy says, "Well, you've still got it going on."
How about that? I've still got it going on. I appeared cool and collected on the outside, but on the inside I was doing a happy dance. I was flattered beyond belief and my motivational mojo returned just.like.that. Maybe things aren't as bad as I thought. Within minutes, my head was spinning with diet and exercise plans for the next week. I can't wait to get started and may even hit a Weight Watchers meeting tomorrow morning. There is hope for me after all.
Hey, I think that makes me a MILF. No, wait. I have three grandchildren. I'm a GILF. And that feels pretty damn good.