If you’ve been out of college for more than a year or two, you’re well aware that the metabolic wood chippers that turned your exclusively Keystone-Light-and-buffalo-chicken-pizza diet into Total Gym infomercial abs no longer works. It doesn’t help matters that the occasional gym trip and intramural soccer game have been replaced by “Bar Rescue” marathons and those new birthday cake Oreos.
Sidebar: Those are fucking delicious.
So, you decide to do what every 20-something decides to do no less than 17 times a year: Start working out and eating better. You promise. Vehemently. Maybe you even tweet about your intentions in a half-assed effort to hold yourself accountable. You’re going to put this plan into action on Monday.
Then this is what happens:
You hit the snooze button the customary six times and sleep right through the 20-minute period where you were going to get up and bang out some push-ups and some crunches. Not a big deal. You’d have probably been too tired to finish anyhow, you know? Better get some coffee in you.
Black coffee is a bit aggressive, though. You know what’s not aggressive? A venti caramel mochiatto. Best $5.28 you’ve spent in a month. Tom Haverford isn’t the only one that’s allowed to treat himself.
The rest of the day gets you back on track. Some fruit and a granola bar for lunch, grilled chicken for dinner. See, this shit’s not so bad. You can knock out the next six days no problem.
Who starts a workout plan on a Tuesday? Probably just Steven Glansberg. Sitting all alone on a bench by the curl bars. You’ll start fresh with that next Monday. Just have to stay on track with the eating well part of the equation. Baby steps.
But wait: It’s Karen in accounting’s birthday and somebody brought gourmet cupcakes. There’s 48 of them and only half that many people in your office. No one wants to be the rude coworker that says “Oh, I’m fine. Thank you.” Nobody likes that coworker. Going down with the S.S. Diabetes is a team effort.
Crush a healthy breakfast. Crush a healthy lunch. Crush a healthy d… nope. Not happening. Your significant other wants to try out that new Greek place in the village and there’s no getting out of it. You skipped out on dinner last week to play FIFA with your budd—I mean, visit your sick grandmother in the nursing home. Mildred just isn’t doing well these days.
Two gyros and eight metric tons worth of tzatziki sauce later, and you’re in the bathroom loosening two full notches on a belt without very many notches to spare.
No. Shitty. Food. Today. Nothing that isn’t grilled, picked from a tree or pulled from the ground. Nothing that comes in a wrapper or has a logo on it.
Oh, the lies we tell ourselves at 7:30 a.m.
The drive to work is especially painful – what, did they put up like four new Taco Bells since you drove home last night? There’s no WAY that Whataburger was there last week. SON OF A BITCH IS THAT A NEW SONIC?!
You maintain resolve, though. The resolve to not be 25 years of age and looking like you’re well-acquainted with strip club buffets and XL golf polos. The resolve to not hear the phrase “your aortic valve looks like the 405 during rush hour.”
No sooner do you envision Bill Brasky’s four heart chambers full of ricotta cheese than does your friend call you to say everyone’s going out for celebratory drinks. Tom just got a promotion and doesn’t plan on celebrating with a quiet night of Vonnegut and Ritz crackers.
FRIDAY AND SATURDAY:
Yeah, may as well just forget about it here.
Has anyone in America ever eaten a vegetable on a Friday? Maybe one of those hard bodies in the Crossfit Games. You’d rather look like Ralphie May and enjoy your weekend than be in the Crossfit Games.
Sundays are exclusively reserved for becoming a human couch cushion, crushing wings and drinking enough beer to forget your football team sucks. I think that was written into The Magna Carta.
You’ll get to it next week.
Definitely next week.