To: Self. From: Stomach.
Dear Self,
Yes, you’ve had a crappy day. Yes, there is a small round of Brie in the fridge and a full bottle of vodka in the freezer.
Now seems like a good time to remind you that you are not on the “Let’s Pretend We’re Doing Atkins” diet.
You will not touch the cheese. You will not drink the vodka. Oh, and martini-soaked olives do not count as vegetables.
Step away from the refrigerator before you grow large enough to play defense for the Penn State football team.
Now drop and give me 25 sit-ups. Pronto!
Love,
Your Stomach
4 Responses to “To: Self. From: Stomach.”
I am a fan of yours. You have a way to make things funny when it is just every day thing. Others wreck themselves with dustructive inner voice while you make it so positive! I loved the post about how you got your husband into making the extra space for your exercise room. Hysterical.
Thanks, Sue!
Unfortunately, I haven’t seen much progress in terms of building that exercise room, but I haven’t given up hope just yet.
If you are married to a man like mine, yes, it is at the back of his head and when he does eventually gets it done, it is up fast.
Sounds like your refrigerator calls out to you also. There’s a key lime cheesecake in there right now with my name on it.