Peregrine flight

Wednesday, December 26, 2012

Yours in salad.

It is a rainy morning here in Southern California. I left in the cold, wet dawn, bent over to receive my daily goodbye kiss from Leslie and she cautioned me to be careful driving, the roads being slick as icing on a cake. "Ugh,"I said. "Please don't mention cake, or cookies or anything like that."

It has been a gluttonous month. I always put on weight during this time of the year, some squirrel like storing mechanism for the "not so hard" San Diego winter. But this month has been particularly bad. Thanksgiving, parties, pre christmas eve, christmas eve, christmas. Everyone is baking this year and I am wearing every shortbread cookie, every decorated gingerbread man, every scrumptious nut filled brownie around my midriff like tokens from a battlefield.

Yesterday was the annual dim sum fest. More like a horde of ravenous termites dismembering a balsawood airplane factory. We destroyed the place. I am personally embarrassed for my own gustatory conduct. We figured that Jasmine seated about 450 and the place was full and really humming along. More han than yid this year. I prefer 10:00 on a mellow tuesday. But boy were they putting some food out. Thanks to my table mates for the group gnash and nosh.

We had plans to go visit the accent mark in the afternoon, she had done a prime rib up but simply couldn't ingest another bite. It will be salads from now until New Years. If I have any strength and fortitude left whatsoever, I will refrain from the sizable cookie stash or chuck the whole damn thing in the trash. But what about all those poor kids in Africa?

I need to get back in the gym. I was mentioning to my spouse that neither the couch or bed was any longer comfortable when a little light bulb went off and I realized that it was not the aforementioned but my own corpulent body that was hurting at every flange, socket and appendage.

I decided to go after the toe nails last night, we have new high thread count sheets (a gift from Mel) and a wayward toenail can make mincemeat of them in seconds. I have done it before and I can assure you Leslie was none too pleased.

Sighting the toes was the first order of business. I knew that they were located in the standard position, at the end of my foot but their location looked as remote as mecca. I tried to bend over my expansive equatorial region and managed to grab a foot, slowly hoisting it on top of the bathroom sink for leverage. Made a few crude attempts, my body contorted like a misshapen pretzel in an attempt at elasticity heretofore reserved for one of my tries at the middle chapters of the kama sutra.

When you are really feeling fat, forget the scale, I don't even want to look at a mirror or a clean window. Forget the dreaded side view, when the front view has more chins than a chinese phonebook, we have problems, mission control. Some people say cheese when they take a picture, all I hear is my wife saying,"chin down." I feel like a before picture of the Michelin man,  the tractor tires shot, not the sleek radials.

Going to be less of me soon. Diet starts tomorrow. Got to see if I can get some leftover prime rib this afternoon and tomorrow, fatso is history. Pass the mylanta.

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