Every Tuesday is Fat Tuesday in My Pants

February is the month of love.
And I love food.

(For those people who say, "Uh, Julie, it's Wednesday!"  Yes, I get that.  I write late at night because the full, coherent sentences come after the children have been bedded.  But perhaps in my world it is Tuesday every day.  Perhaps this is Julietopia, where I am queen, and days and time have no meaning and everyone gets sugar cookies and there are no taxes, or laundry, and it is always May and Starbucks delivers.)

This morning I sat down at my computer with my large, steaming cup of beige coffee and a bagel, and read with amazement that today is Fat Tuesday.  "Huh," I thought as the bagel crumbled out of my mouth and past the cream cheese on my t-shirt, "I thought every Tuesday was Fat Tuesday".  But maybe it's just MY pants that celebrate.

A friend in Mount Vernon, Iowa owns and cooks in the best restaurant on the planet, The Lincoln Cafe.  I'm not biased.  It is really the best food ever.  Ask anyone.  It's crack on a plate.  It's an unexpected check from grandma in college and summer camp and kids gone for the weekend and Girl Scout cookie delivery day and John Cusak holding up the Boom Box in Say Anything all run through a chopping mechanism with mango and cumin and some other wacky ingredient you don't recognize like bison or quail or quinoa (Matt just said via Facebook that he was repeatedly beaten with a box of quinoa as a child, and would prefer "eggplant" instead) and presented on a nice white plate.  And then it's a taste explosion in your mouth, like the best fireworks ever or Gourmet Pop Rocks on your tongue.  Matt's motto is "Honest Food" and they have t-shirts (like the one I was wearing with strawberry cream cheese on it) that say "Food Is Important".  I see that shirt and I think, Damn Straight.  And I don't care if the food isn't honest.  Lie to me, food.  Say you're negative calories.  I won't kick you out of bed.

Have I mentioned I love food?  So for all of you wanna-be poseurs who celebrate Fat Tuesday once a year, I give you my 52 Fat Tuesdays.  And you should see what happens on Merlot Mondays and Wasabi Wednesdays and Thigh Thickener Thursdays and Deep Fat Frydays.  Delicious.  And then it's on to Weekend Food!  Yay!

However, I am a realist, and know I will be killing myself by inches if I succumb to my gluttonous instincts.  The days of waking up on Saturday morning in the sorority and eating donuts and drinking 64 ounce fountain Mountain Dews to chase away the residue from a night of 10 beers and Taco Bell or Quik Trip microwave food after the house dinner of Starchy Crisco Ground Beef Casserole with Oreo Mint Dessert are officially over.  (No disrespect, Suzie, it was all delicious, every last starchy fat bite.)  The day of my 35th birthday my metabolism said, "Well, my work here is done," and it took off, leaving me with a 3000 calorie a day latte habit and no exercise ethic.  That was five years ago, and I'm still drinking lattes.  Action needs to be taken.  Literally.

I did a brief stint at the YMCA, and actually made friends with an elliptical machine and got in shape, and then I stopped going, because who wants easy success?  It should feel like a struggle, right?  CH was doing MediFast, and wanted me to try it, and I was all, "you take your pyramid scheme diet plan and I'll stick to the Whitey's malts", but soon he was down 35 pounds and I was lactose intolerant.  I caved.  I got on MediFast.  And I lost 25 pounds pretty quickly and have kept it off.  So my jeans will zip, but my heart and cholesterol didn't get the memo. 

I am still lacking in the cardio/exercise department.  On Monday, when the girls were testing me switching rooms, I found a pedometer, and decided to put it on.  By the end of the day Monday, I logged 3500 steps.  Hey!  That's good, right?


Uh, NO.

I Googled how many steps I should be taking a day, and it told me some vile stat that said I should be taking about 10,000 steps a day to stay healthy.  WTF?!?!  I consider myself somewhat active, but I guess writers who sit in front of their computers all day are actually in the Michael Moore/Marlon Brando/Kevin Smith Institute of Health.

"Monday was an anomaly," I thought.  "I'm more active than that!"  Today, I got up from the computer, carried loads of laundry up and down the steps, and walked laps around the house while on my weekly call with one of my freelance clients.  Then I took the kids to their piano and cello lessons and to a playdate...but that was driving, which oddly doesn't show up on the pedometer.  So here I sit, with 4090 steps.  Crapola.

Apparently my dog is getting fat as well, as neighbors are starting to comment.  George the Superpet lays around all day with me, and to make matters worse, he gets his lattes with whole milk.  Since OUTSIDE still resembles a weather station in Antarctica, I'm going to give myself a pass for another few weeks, get my Girl Scout cookies in and eaten, but as soon as it thaws out there, I'm going to have to leash up the dog and get out in the hood.

I love food.  I hate exercise.  My dog is large and energetic.  I, sadly, am aging and bitter.  But I ordered 15 boxes of Girl Scout cookies, and I want to eat a big dinner at the Lincoln Cafe soon.  Lonely Nikes, I will be with you soon.  And baby, we were born to run.

p.s. Happy Birthday Matt!  I'll trade you a birthday cake for a pulled pork sandwich....