I knew it was time to start working out when my friend started her diet.
I don't think I'm fat or anything, but in the last few years I've gone from being a server to sitting at a desk all day — and in my friend's quest for a firmer tail, she's started eating Subway every day.
She gets a cookie with her sub, which doesn't fit into her diet, so guess who eats it?
Me. Every day. (I've never met a cookie I didn't like.)
I love food. French fries. Pizza. Cheez-Its. Oh, Cheez-Its. I could write a sonnet.
But a healthy love for food doesn't make a healthy person — mentally or physically. But neither does exercise. At least not by itself.
I've seen the love of food turn man into monster and woman into warrior. I've even seen my boyfriend nearly deck Cinderella for not being a chicken tender — at the Happiest Place on Earth — because we'd walked for hours on an empty stomach on our trip to Disney World. (Food's really expensive there.)
And I can't tell you how many people I've seen act like they'd won the lottery when I announced "tonight's special" as their server. Food's great, but it shouldn't give you an orgasm. And neither should your reflection, no matter how long you've been dating the gym.
When my boyfriend and I first moved to Florida we met a man at a club by the name of I'd-had-a-few-beers. (Not his real name, but I'd had a few and, like that night, can't remember it.)
This article appears in Mar 31 – Apr 6, 2010.