November 16, 2005
Chubby strudel munching fop. My lavendar chemise feels stretched across a pestering paunch which carries three nights of ice cream cake (leftover from the boyfriend's birthday.) Sigh. Idly I eye the locations of the nearest gymnasium. I spy a photo barely a year old which sports the lean rugby physique of your's truly. Ah rugby. It was such a different entity a year ago. The physical rewards were secondary to the sheer exhiliration of running, sweating, tackling. This year, however, the physical rewards were my primary goal and the exhiliration instead gained the weight of exasperation as the swagger proved more of a waddle. And the reward never came. Then again, with no expectation of such, there is always a reward. Sophmore slump? Belly of jelly. Huffin and puffin followed by snackin and stuffin my mouth with sesame seed sticks and dollops of garlic humus. Is one nibble of gouda good enough? No! And then the gym... So close to work. Yet going is more a chore. Sloth thy name is Gayest Neil... Can someone help me with my girdle?