Aren't you supposed to wait an hour after eating...?

Before blogging? Hmm. Well, some things just can't be put off anymore. And as the whole point of this weighty affair is growing some awareness around WHAT I eat and WHEN I eat it, I suppose it makes sense to idle here, tastebuds still savoring the savory lingering black bean soup glory. Maybe I'm supposed to wait an hour before laying on the ground *trying* to type something sensical, while Mr. DooferHoofer tries his best to be the single most annoying being on the planet. I realize it makes him giggle to jiggle my tummy fat, seeing as how he has none of his own, not now, not ever that he can remember I'm sure, and that it's quite the oddity, a marvel of nature, but it doesn't seem to have the same effect on me. Not since I was three (except for that one time I pretended to be Santa and we laughed until boogers came out of my nose, and then we laughed about that too). Mostly it just makes my eyes go into glare mode and makes me resent both his limitless (and sweat-free) energy reserves, and his uncanny ability to eat everything in sight and not gain a fraction of an ounce. (Usually I admire these qualities, they give me hope, but not whilst my fatty bits are being jostled about.)

SOOOO anyway, I discovered some surprising new fatty spots today, just hanging about at that dangerous cross-roads between the sea of stomach and the great hip hills, and despite justifying it aloud as perhaps a change in the other direction (a random area of previous fatitude has now receded, leaving an odd lumpy spot, obviously), even I cannot swallow such denial for too long. Thus the need to make myself and my weighty woes accountable to something other than my weak self (Willpower free since 93!).

And it's not like I can't do this. Hell, I shed 100 pounds before turning 30, and I didn't think that would happen. LIFESTYLE CHANGE. It's the only way. So what's up now? Well... overworked, under-worked out, bad habits want to creep in, plateau, whatever it is... I'm not where I want to be. I'm almost 31 and I feel like it's all gonna turn to mush unless I whip it into shape now! My old goal was 160, and I said once I got there I'd keep going, but it just got stuck in my consciousness somehow, and even though I've bounced down as far as a (scale anomaly I'm sure) 149, I keep gravitating back to the 1-6-0. This very morning I weighed in at 163. Not the best day. I can't even blame it on hormones. And I just feel woobley. All chub, all the time.

So I committed myself (by stating it aloud to someone other than me, and someone whom I have not bribed to be easy on me) to reaching my NEW goal of 135 this year: before 2008 is out. And I WILL do it. And it has to start now. It can start with this simple omission: I love food. I sometimes hate that I love food, but I do. And I think it's okay to say that and be okay with it. It just has to be the right food. And I crave comfort food and sweet food and anything that ends in "cake" even though I ought not to want it. I love healthy food too and I love to cook (damn fine straight up cooking beast I be). But I need to make myself more aware of what I put in, and what kind of energy I expend, if I am ever going to not be an addict.

I have seen myself do amazing things before, so I know it's possible, and now I'm just going to spew garbled text about it to no end. Who knows, maybe someone else will get inspired, and maybe we'll start a chub club and weightlift our way to happier-ness. I'm game.

Right, so after spending a mere 23 minutes on the elliptical machine downstairs, I consumed some delightful black bean soup (home made from a low-fat, organic, cuban black bean bisque, with onion, garlic, carrot, yellow finn potato, more garlic, turkey ham, did I mention garlic? and cajun blackened seasoning) with some weird green organix italian herb croutons on top, and that was it. No after-soup snacking. This whole having to admit it to the world thing might just work.

Now I think I'll go read about cadavers and try to get some sleep. You know, the usual.