Yesterday was Fat Tuesday, for those who observe the holiday. I did my part to promote it: I had a Tuesday, and I ate like I wanted to be fat. Now today I'm paying for it, not only with physical woes but with psychological guilt. For wanting to lose ten pounds, I sure didn't behave like it yesterday. So today I'm drinking carrot juice. It's my penance, my punishment. It sure doesn't taste as good as the Chips Ahoys I nabbed on the way home last night. Why does it take six weeks and a Pope's discipline to lose the three pounds it took one trip to the grocery store to gain?
A few nights ago I dreamt I'd gained, oh, probably, hundreds of pounds over night. I was getting dressed in the morning and it was like trying to put doll clothes on. That was the same dream in which I found under many layers of pajamas that I was still wearing a t-shirt I had put on in junior high. Trippy. I shouldn't eat junk food. It makes me not only feel guilty but have stress dreams. Can you imagine the shape the shirt would be in?
Since Lent starts today, I guess I should give the occasion an equal amount of effort as I did Fat Tuesday. Though with it lasting forty-plus days, I can't promise I can keep up the same gusto the entire time that I demonstrated keeping Fat Tuesday. So I'll go with the carrot juice today, try to stay away from all things Keebler tomorrow, try to sleep well, and be sure to change my t-shirt.
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