Exactly 25 days from today, the newf and I will be packing up and shipping out to all-inclusive glory in Cuba with a great group of friends that I love…..great, beautiful friends……..great, hot friends that make me feel bad about myself…
…skinny little bitch friends that I hate when I realize we’re all going to be on a beach in bathing suits and their sexy little bodies are going to be all up in my beached whale grill and I’ll have to drown my tears in cheap Cuban rum until I throw up at which point I’ll celebrate the lost calories because every now and then you just need a good eating disorder.
I kid. Ish.
Now, I’ve thought long, hard and thrusty about how to get myself comfortable in my own skin before seven days of self-scrutiny under the sun. The best plan I came up with was to eat sensibly and exercise over the course of the three months I had back when I booked the tickets.
Clearly that was a smashing success…
So now? With less than four weeks to go…we panic. I’m torn between cutting out all foods that cast a shadow and calling it a detox (socially acceptable anorexia alternative?), puncturing my stomach in a carefully calculated stair-running accident, and popping laxatives faster than a the head of the PTA rattles through her kid’s Ritalin.
Desperate times, baby.
But, in a change from my usual pursuits, I’m going to attempt to forgo anything that would cause long-term physical or mental anguish – I know…I feel like such a quitter – and apply my usual manic dedication to healthier tactics, banking the drastic measures for the seven-day countdown.
Oh what – you thought I was going to give up on the shadow-free detox? That shit’s gold. But for now we enter Operation Don’t Kill Yourself – You Still Have A 29-inch Waist, You Flaming Moron.
It’s not a good name…but it pretty much sums up the pure insanity of the extreme punishments I put myself through.
It all kicked off this morning with my trial run of going to the gym BEFORE WORK. That’s right – I it’s 7:30 and I’ve already put myself through hell by convincing myself in a vulnerable mental state that leaving the house before six is just like getting home before six….meaning that I creeped out of bed without waking the dude next to me, did a quick shot of vodka, pumped techno trash without words, and went on my way, leaving my dignity behind.
(Just kidding. I know nothing of that. Not like you whores.)
And now? Aside from occasionally realizing that I have tears streaming down my face – it happened – I seem to be experiencing a delirious high that will prove either life-changing over the course of the day or highlight my descent into a Jean Grey-esque fury wherein I rip people apart at an atomic level with the pure hatred for the universe.
Keep an eye on the news around mid-morning. Just in case.