Day 17 -- Aug. 24, 2012
Today I am 192.2 pounds of rolling thunder.
I'm not sure how long it takes for something to become an adage, but there is some logic to the old saw that says don't send a hungry person to buy groceries.
So yesterday I changed up my routine and did some running on the grass at a local park. Our younger son has some toe shoes (for runners, not dancers), so I think I might try those next time I hit the grass.
It was a good change of pace from hitting the sidewalks and asphalt of the neighborhood. The soft surface was easy on the joints and the undulating surface gave running and balance an added dimension.
Post run it was time to hit the grocery store. I guess my post-workout sandwich wasn't enough because when Paula Deen's cherubic cheeks and elfin eyes hit me from the dessert aisle at the grocery story, I melted like a pound of Paula's beloved butter.
There was even time for the angel to land on my shoulder, before the devil on the other side had loaded something called a sour cream pound cake into my cart.
The boys need energy for cross country, I rationalized.
But there was no denying it. Paula had cast her spell and the demon calorie-churning machine was in my buggy and there was no turning back now. She had thrown down the gauntlet of temptation, and I had willingly swallowed the hook whole.
I didn't want to know that a slice was a mere 240 calories, about half of which come from fat. And that's a human-sized slice and not a late-night binge slice.
I knew in my heart of hearts that behind those big, glossy eyes Paula has the cool demeanor of a soul snatcher. I've seen her cook on the Food Network. I know what kind of spells she can cast with butter.
By mid-evening I succumbed to the pressure of the plastic container, which of course when removed from the plastic tray bottom of the cake could wake the entire house or at least let them know that, yes, dad was having cake. The seductress Paula Dean had worked her magic.
I realize that you need to fall off the diet wagon on occasion and not beat yourself up too badly. So as I was drifting off to sleep listening to sports talk radio (that has to burn some calories), I listened to the sad story of Lance Armstrong being stripped of his seven Tour de France titles.
Geez, I thought. He may have tarnished his image by using performance enhancing drugs, which makes Paula Deen's sour cream pound cake seem like a safe haven for a mere mortal like me.
So if you see the world's slowest human out running today, give me an extra wave for the pound cake and the fact that I'm going to be a great uncle again soon.