Thursday, December 26, 2013
What does that mean? Seize the sugar. I googled it, so it must be correct.
My inner fat kid steals. While I eat healthy, she carries on like life is a Dickens novel and burrows under a blanket with a book and the emergency goldfish crackers. I caught her trying to steal chocolate someone hid in the freezer. (Stupid move, Someone. Like you don’t know my inner fat kid scouts out the freezer?) I force her to eat healthy food, but she fights it. I order an amazing salad at Panera, and refuse adding on a cookie, but she interrupts and bellows, “Don’t listen to the skinny witch! I want a cookie! I want two cookies!” Whenever I go in Panera, they get very quiet and the manager comes over to wait on me. Like none of them have ever seen an inner fat kid tantrum before?
She has absolutely no respect for reality either. My inner fat kid doesn’t care if we can fit into our jeans, she doesn’t even care if we can fit into coach seats. Some people are born color-blind, and she’s like that with her muffin top bulge. She’ll tug on my favorite long sleeved t-shirt and by-pass the full-length mirror, secure in the knowledge that from the neck-up there is no evidence of Christmas cookies. Right now she’s riding her holiday sugar high and there is no reasoning with her. It is with this brat that I must work through edits for the next week. I will be forcing spinach smoothies on her, so if you see her just ignore the screaming pleas for Hershey Kisses.
Like I’d feed ANYONE milk chocolate. Sheesh.
Especially when I have a lovely dark chocolate stash that she doesn’t even know about.
Today she cleaned the entire house just to avoid the Stairmaster. She has a very impolite nickname for the Stairmaster. As she busied herself breaking up cardboard boxes for recycling, I’m pretty sure she felt the Stairmaster eyeing her love handles because she kept tugging her shirt over them self-consciously. Tomorrow while Fifty Shades of Payday is whipping her into shape, I’ll let her screech out “THANKS OBAMA” which seems to amuse her during the ordeal. It’s going to be a rough week of veggie penance, the red room of gym-pain (which is actually yellow), and book edits (which is like the peas on the succotash because we daren’t use the icing on the cake metaphor since she’s fallen off the wagon in Candyland).
But you know, like every parent says, “I’m doing this because I love you inner-fat-kid.” And “You’ll thank me someday.” I probably shouldn’t tell you what her response to that is. I think she’s entering the teen years, and has been watching way too much cable.
Is anyone else having these troubles with their IFK lately?
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