NO MORE TATERS

 

Step away from the mashed potatoes. Those spuds are not our friends. And, sadly as of January one, we are told we should replace grandma’s sausage inspired stuffing with an all natural, organic, healthy salad… as well as trading our crisp, chilled yummy wine for vitamin infused water…ouch…big ouch…well, perhaps a little wine?

Yes, folks. It is New Year’s resolution time.

Mister Man and I survived our first holiday season together years ago, nicely. It was an interesting bonding opportunity, although it drove us directly past the honey moon phase… quickly. But as we swept up the last visible Christmas tree pine needle, we were a legitimate couple as a result; accepting all of the flaws that apparently seeped into the relationship during the season. We endured alarming distant relatives (i.e.: Uncle Edgar) one too many social obligations, awkward family gift exchanges, nearly violent WalMart episodes and one too many fruit cakes. Figuratively and literally.

It is virtually impossible to hide the real truth about anything in life. Over time, it will always reveal its ugly head. And Tis’ the season to be jolly will generally rip each of us down to our basic core and the optimistic spin you have tried to give your new partner about who you are and which planet you came from will be accurately revealed. Uncle Edgar will speak volumes. If nothing else, we must pay attention to genetics. If you choose to have children one day, Edgar will be in those genes somewhere.

However, this is an important process and you will both be better informed about each other, being a key factor in planning on a relationship long term.

It was a brutally cold, yet breathtaking evening the night before New Year’s Eve. Mister Man and I treated ourselves to a lovely dinner at Halls on the River. Both dreadfully guilty because of over indulgence during the holidays, we justified and considered this as the “last supper.” Indeed it was. Banana peppers! Beer Cheese! Extra bread! Extra butter for the bread! Crab legs! Extra butter with our crab legs! Cheesecake! Hot buttered rum! . . . it was nothing less than fabulous.

I promised to sign up at Shapes and work out for one hour a day, six days a week. I would also cut out the spuds, bread and sweets. I would get back on my vitamin routine and park my car far away from all entrances and always take the steps.

Mister Man was planning to take up tennis and cut back poker night to one per month. 2012 was going to be the best year ever and we would soon be looking like spring chickens!

I set my alarm clock one hour earlier to fit in my workout and beat everyone to the gym before work. Apparently every woman in Lexington decided to sign up at Shapes, but I finally got my membership card and stepped up to the treadmill.

My ear buds were cranked to ten as I was jamming to Prince. I started out slow and eased my way to level six. I felt fantastic so I thought I would take it to level eight! I felt like Rocky Balboa up on that treadmill visualizing myself back in a bikini! Hot Damn!

Somehow, between the groove of Little Red Corvette and Good Morning America I must have gotten distracted because I lost my footing and as if in slow motion, I went flying off of the treadmill backwards, slamming into the bicycle behind me. The treadmill was still going at what appeared to be ninety miles per hour and my headset hit the forehead of the lady behind me. I was so embarrassed I could have died.

On my way home, I called Mister Man. Apparently he sprained his ankle at tennis. How pathetic were we? “Hey babe, let’s start the diet tomorrow--you up for Cracker Barrel?”


Posted on 2012-01-01 by Buffy Lawson
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