The other day I did a KILLER workout involving about a thousand push-ups, 500 pull-ups, and enough box jumps that if I had been moving progressively upwards I could be on the moon right now. Those numbers are all vastly hyperbolic. But it was really fucking hard, and I threw up a tiny bit.
Hot Firefighter Husband did the workout with me. We both felt pumped and exhilarated. We came home….I stripped my wet clothes off my glistening body…..flexed my naked pulsing trapezoids in the mirror……and jumped……WAIT FOR IT!….that’s right, baby…..I jumped…..
….onto the scale.
“I need to drop 10 pounds,” I said to Hot Firefighter Husband.
All of his appendages deflated at once.
“Can I just tell you,” he said, “how much I hate it when you do something so amazing, like that workout, and then, when you should be feeling so strong and proud about your body, you start complaining about your weight.”
Well. When he puts it that way, I hate it, too.
In my defense, Husband can’t be trusted to be honest with me. Apparently he loves me so much that he can’t conceive of my physical being possessing any faults. The other day, I randomly muttered something about needing to dress more appropriately.
“I love your style,” he said. NOTE: I have no style. Most days I wear workout shorts, a tank top and a doo-rag. I don’t even shower every day.
I haven’t shaved my legs in, like, six weeks. “Should I shave my legs?” I asked him.
“No. They look fine,” he said.
I could go on and on. “Honey, I don’t feel like wearing mascara tonight,” I’ll say.
“So don’t! You don’t need make-up.”
Either he no longer looks very closely at me, or he doesn’t want the senior citizens at the gym checking me out. Let’s go with the latter, just for a Friday ego boost. And don’t go all moony about what a dreamboat hubby I have. I mean, he’s hot and sweet and all, but he leaves his pants on the floor one leg at a time just like all the other men. And he still can’t load a dishwasher properly.
ANYWAY. He’s right about the weight thing. Yes, I could stand to drop 10 pounds or so. But instead of fretting about it daily, I have entered into an agreement with my workout friend K, who is my exact same age but a lot more goddess-like. Even Husband concedes her level of hotness. “She’s an enigma,” he says.
K and I decided to weigh ourselves only once a week – on the condition that we both stick to clean eating regimes in the interim.
Clean eating, eating like a caveman, going paleo – yes, they’re all buzz phrases these days, and it’s easy to write it all off as trendy, like a diet-du-jour.
It’s not. Clean eating means nothing more than eating real food, and avoiding the processed junk that contains stuff you can’t pronounce. It’s like being Caroline Ingalls! But without having to use an outhouse.
Whenever I mention clean eating habits, somebody always questions how I can possibly find enough food to eat. This always strikes me as a ridiculous thing to say, but I don’t point that out because I’m pleasant. Instead I give examples, which is what I’m about to do for you.
Yesterday morning, I had a beautiful tomato and a ripe avocado sitting on the counter. I gave half the avocado to Husband to bring to work, along with a piece of leftover grilled chicken and a boiled egg. I squirted some lime juice on the other half of the avocado so it wouldn’t turn all brown and rank-looking.
For lunch, I chopped up the tomato and the avocado, along with some grilled chicken, mixed them together, seasoned the whole shebang with a little balsamic vinegar dressing and salt and pepper, and dined like the Queen of Sheba, assuming the Queen of Sheba watched NCIS reruns during her meals.
Preparation time: five minutes. It would have been four minutes but I cut myself. Again.
See? It’s easier than you think. And by the way? Gin is NOT paleo. But screw that. I like to break rules.