Self Loathing

No matter what my good intentions are I seem to be inherently lazy. I join a gym with high hopes of becoming a hard body. For the first month or so, I go regularly and work out like Jane Fonda circa 1984. Then something happens. I drink 4 glasses of white wine with friends, and imagine that, I just don't feel like going to the gym anymore. Or I wake up on my day off and I'd rather have a hot date with my novel and some cheesy poofs then step anywhere near the eliptical.

So the chub starts to accumulate. Growing consistently all around my thighs and hips like a fungus. I ignore my dimpled limbs and drink pint after pint of beer, all the while complaining that I can no longer fit into my jeans I bought in Asia.

"I mean they literally used to SLIDE on me and I could barely keep them up even with a belt!" I moan to my friend Dee as I stuff another fried chicken wing down my throat.
"I was like Kate Moss on Dexedrine and NOW look at me!!" I shout tearily as I order another side of cornbread.

Perhaps it's because I'm a Taurus, content to lie around placidly eating good food and drinking the finest booze. All the while waiting for some fitness miracle to commence. To wake up from a luxuriously lazy nap to find that I have been given legs like Tina Turner and an ass that won't quit.

I know I cant' blame astrology for my thickening waste line. Nor can I sit around cursing the fact that I am not ridiculously wealthy with a personal trainer on call while I masticate buttery croissants.
No, I must lift my lardy legs and walk them all the way to the cursed gym.
And I will.

As soon as I finish Dustin's ice cream