|Is today over yet?
||[Sep. 24th, 2010|10:41 am]
I am not a nice person when it comes to home-grown zucchini. Don’t get me wrong, I actually love it. Grilled, roasted, shredded and stir-fried, sautéed with onions and cumin, ribboned and mixed with pasta, in ratatouille, with sausage and beans....loves me the zucchini. But seriously, people, if you’re going to grow it, keep on top of it. An inch wide in diameter, PICK THAT SUMBITCH! Zucchini is like toasting pine nuts – not done, not done, not done, not done, just starting to brown, BURNT. Fail to make eye contact with the zucchini and get it the hell off the vine and suddenly, it’s a two inch wide monsterveg. We used to call them horsesquash. Good for feeding livestock, but you wouldn’t expect a human to eat it. I have joked “What is that food, or a home defense weapon?”
Joke no more, Turnip:
I have been peer-pressured into attending my high-school reunion. Which is appropriate for a high school reunion, no? (It helps that a family member has a milestone to celebrate that same weekend and I’ve been getting a guilt-trip for missing that.)
Of course now it’s time to panic, because it’s only a few weeks away and I’m packing a good ten more pounds than I am comfortable with. No, seriously, save yourselves the compliments. I adore them, but really, I’m not talking about getting down to an ideal weight, or where I want to be, or....I’m talking about ten pounds that have become extra. The ten pounds that make me feel not good about wearing most of my clothes. That creep out of the spandex. I don’t seem to carry it in my face as much as I used to...but as I’ve aged, it’s gone elsewhere. An uncomfortable elsewhere. A what-the-hell-is-that-around-my-waist, a flotation device?
Am I realistically going to lose ten pounds in the next two weeks? Oh, no – but c’mon even a little bit would be fine. Just enough so that I can tame the flotation device with spandex. But honestly, this is some stubborn-ass fat. I’m already all stressed out with no one to choke. And now I’m standing in grocery lines looking at my completely non-processed, full of whole grains and veggies, lean protein grocery items. And the people in front and back of me have ice cream, and chips and cookies, and cakes and candy and boxes of mac and cheese, and gross oddly colored baked goods, and hot dogs and....seriously, my Bitter is in the red zone.
Although please note, this is about me feeling good about myself. Do I feel an overwhelming need to look oh, so fab-oo for my reunion? Dude, I haven’t seen these people in 30 years. I look good enough. I am on the good side of the bell curve, even with my flotation device. Not bad for being as close to 50 as I am to 45. I just want to be able to sit down without wondering “what the hell is THAT around my waist!?”
Sure, I'm blowing it every weekend, but during the week, I am abstemious. Honestly, another bowl of freaking lettuce and I'm going to scream. To no avail. My metabolism is just sitting like there like that selfish expletive who takes up a seat on the metro with his bookbag and then carefully refuses to make eye contact with you, daring you to ask him to move his precious sack.
Look at me when I'm talking to you, Metabolism. Don't make me drag you, kicking and screaming, to a gym.
Maybe I’m growing a zucchini in my gut....