I've been harassing myself (is it even possible to harass one's self?) lately about my diet. After being pregnant for 20 out of 24 months - I had two babies eleven months apart - I took on what some could call a devil-may-care attitude toward food. I was quite proud of myself throughout my pregnancies. I stayed away from Coca Cola, which I love. I followed all of the recommended eating habits and calorie intake guides. Basically I suffered for months, dying for a Coke Icee and Reesy Cups. Once I had Anna though, all bets were off. Dinner out two nights in a row? Sure! I'll have the steak and loaded baked potato please. Coke, chocolate, fried chicken, bring it on!
I'm from the South, which explains my love of food. I can't help it. Most family and church get-togethers are planned with the understanding that food will be present. Massive amounts of food. If you've ever been in a room filled with food cooked by a dozen Southern grandmas, you know what I'm talking about. If not, I highly recommend moving. Immediately.
So anyway, I was looking in the mirror, judging myself, when I decided that it was time to get my act together and get my ghetto booty in shape. (Note: If the term "ghetto booty" is offensive to anyone, I apologize. There's just no other term to describe my butt.)
I cut out bread, pasta, rice, and potatoes. Basically, all of the good stuff. I lowered my calorie intake. I started working out more. I used to run all the time, and I loved it. Now I ride a bike for an hour and my legs feel like they're going to fall off. Regardless, I'm doing pretty good so far, but I now hate watching television. Every time a commercial comes on promoting a new burger at McDonald's or the mouthwatering steaks at Outback, I start to salivate. Literally. I turn into Pavlov's dog. I want food! NOW! I'm tired of chicken and fish.
Maybe I'll win the lottery and then I can hire a hard ass personal trainer to whip me into shape...