Rose Madeline Mula Writes: I Feel Like That Carton of Milk In the Refrigerator Which Is Beyond Its Expiration Date
Other than receiving a diagnosis of a terminal illness, what’s the worst thing you can hear in a doctor’s office? For me it’s a toss-up between, “It’s time for another colonoscopy” and “When were you born?” My response to that is “When dinosaurs roamed the earth,” which isn’t too much of a stretch. Why Tyrannosaurus Rex is extinct and I’m still here is a mystery. One that many would like to solve. “What’s your secret?” they ask. Beats me.
It can’t be my diet. I eat Pop-Tarts for breakfast. Yes, the frosted ones. As for my other meals, I have seen vegetables, but seldom on my plate. I don’t want to crowd the ricotta/mozzarella/parmesan-laden lasagna and the tennis-ball size meatballs oozing fat and flavor.
Actually, I make lasagna only rarely; and other than an occasional omelet, it’s the only home-cooked meal I eat. The rest of the time I rely on processed frozen meals whose ingredients lists include more unpronounceable, unspellable components than found in the laboratories of Dow Chemical. Favorite sandwich: peanut butter and Marshmallow Fluff. Lots of both.
But since I’m still here, you probably think I counteract all those no-no’s with regular vigorous workouts. Wrong. Unless tossing and turning and sprinting to the bathroom frequently every sleepless night count. It’s not that my intentions haven’t been admirable. I have compiled a binder of exercises so comprehensive it would make the most conscientious physical therapist jealous.
Image above: Sarah Nichols/FLICKR/Creative Commons
I somehow feel that researching and printing out an extensive array of exercises that I plan to start doing “some day” will magically make me fit just by osmosis. I do the same with food, by the way.
I am the proud owner of an impressive collection of imaginative recipes of veggies from asparagus to zucchini which I have Googled, printed and filed in a folder that I keep right next to my pristine Air Fryer and Instant Pot. They are pristine not because I am a meticulous housekeeper but because I have yet to use them. I keep hoping that simply buying each new appliance will magically transform me into Julia Child II. So far, however, the only one of her “talents” I’ve been able to emulate is dropping food on the floor and picking it up before anyone notices.
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