Friday, April 1, 2011

99 Bottles of (ginger) Ale on the Wall ...

For those of you who have never actually seen me in person (and there are a couple of you out there), I should start this post by saying this: I'm an Irish girl.

Some Irish girls are built like the dancers you might see in "Riverdance". They're lanky and graceful and sylphlike.

And some of us are stocky and sturdy and well suited for farming potatoes and peat.

Guess which cateory I belong in. (Hint: it's not the first one.)

So while it's lovely to have the sort of frame that is well built for storing fat and surviving a potato famine, in a non-potato-famine surviving mode, it's a little bit ... I don't want to use the word "annoying", but ... it can be frustrating, because I find myself looking in the mirror and having these sorts of conversations play out in my head:

Me: Aren't my calves supposed to have some definition?

Calves (mortified) We're defined! We're CLEARLY calves! We serve the function of calves -- walking, standing -- just fine.

Me: But I think you are supposed to be slimmer.

Calves: I don't know why you're picking on us. Have you taken a good look at Thighs lately?

Thighs (Gasps): WHY ARE YOU THROWING US UNDER THE BUS? Stupid Calves!

Calves: ...

Me: Okay, maybe we could all -- overall, you know, all together -- maybe we could all stand to be a little ... smaller.

Arms: Us too?

Me (gently) Yes.

DNA: You know you're not really ever going to be "small" right? Potato farming? Fields? Sturdy-ness?

Me, Arms, Thighs, Calves: SHUT UP, Stupid DNA!

So I decided to go on a diet. Not a little diet, either. An expensive, fancy, food delivery diet. The kind I always said I'd never ever go on EVER... but I'm getting older and, you know, I'd like to have calves that are defined (and a little bit more separate from my ankles, because I'm vain like that).

And the diet is working, as I may have mentioned in the past.

There's just one thing.

You can't drink alcohol while on the diet.

Now, I'm not a tremendous drinker or anything, but did I mention? Nice Irish girl. Which means that in addition to the "Peasant Farmer Physique" that is encoded in my genetic material, I also ... on occasion ... now and again ... enjoy a beer. Or a glass of wine. Or maybe two.

Also, hello, dieting is STRESSFUL. You know what makes me less stressed out? An evening with my good friend Pinot Noir, that's what.

So I was like, well, maybe I can cheat and sneak in a drinkie poo here and there. No worries.

Which I did. Except that the other day, when I was like "WINE NIGHT! WOO!" I was pretty sure that I could hear my Calves saying with disappointment: "Seriously, she wants us to be more defined and THIS is how she respects her diet? Whatever. I'm going to slump RIGHT INTO those ankles. And then she'll have to talk to the Cankles. So there. Define THIS."

I was guilt laden. I don't enjoy guilt. I certainly don't enjoy being laden with it. So I was like, Okay, okkkaaaaay, I won't enjoy anymore drinkie poos while I'm on the Diet (which should really be capitalized, I guess, because it's SERIOUS. It's a Diet). Sheeesh. Drama over.

But then I had a very stressful week and found myself standing in the wine aisle at WalMart of all places, dreaming of a big old glass of Merlot and nearly whimpering.

Calves and Thighs: INTERVENTION!

And they marched me over to the soft drinks.

Which is how I came home with two cases of Diet Ginger Ale. Because it's ALE, right? And if you pour it in a wine glass, it's the same colour as pinot grigio. And if you've anthropomorphized your overweight body parts, you can obviously convince yourself that a diet ginger ale is nearly as wonderful as a cold beer on a crazy busy stressful day.

Right? (Takes giant slug of cold, delicious diet ginger ale.)

Well ... maybe.

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