I'm a Carbie Girl in a Carbie World...

Ok so I’ve officially stopped going to work now, I am “Clearing Post” which means I wake up at noon get a latte and watch Days of Our Lives. Not really, but yet not so far off either…today it was Blue’s Clues: quality entertainment. So I discovered when I got home that an anorexic midget leprechaun had stolen all my jeans and left me her Brittany Spears wardrobe. I got one leg halfway up my thigh and it stopped there sort of confused as to what was supposed to happen next. Still not convinced that my ass had really expanded to the size of a small third world country I crammed the other leg in and commenced to shimmy and shake myself the rest of the way in. As I lay on my bed like a beached whale flopping about trying to button them up I decided perhaps I had eaten one too many of…well EVERYTHING. The next day I hit the gym and a month later my ass was still celebrating Fat Tuesday. With a spring break trip planned for South Padre Island and Hawaii the following month I decided to hire a personal trainer to assist me down my yellow brick road to skinny. So I make the appointment and I open the door to find a cute happy little woman who scampered in with a milk crate full of what I would later come to know as the devices o’ torture. 30 seconds into our first workout I knew that I had been bamboozled and hoodwinked. Beneath the bouncy happy exterior lay a masochistic slave driving torturous fiend with a beady eyed glint and a smile that would make the Predator look cuddly. When Sunday’s came around I’d find myself curled in the corner in a little ball trying to go to a happy place to forget about what had just taken place. She was not above public humiliation either in the form of sprints up and down my street. As I lumbered up and down the block the beady little eyes of 15 dirty old men, 20 overweight glaring housewives and 500 neighborhood children watched in fascination. I am THE slowest sprinter on the face of the earth. Tricycles and small rodents were lapping me. After about the third sprint my appendages started to do their own thing independent of any type of directions from my brain. I imagine I looked somewhat the Tasmanian devil with arms and legs flying about in angles and directions that defy the laws of physics and most certainly do not resemble any type of physical training. To add insult to torture this week she decided I was still too fat and cut my carbs to one meal a day prior to lunch. She warned me that this could cause me to become irritable. Irritable? I had hallucinations as I hunched over my baked potato snarling and scaring small children in Wendy’s. I mean holy hell I went to Red Lobster the other night and I started to sweat when the put the cheddar biscuits down in front of me. I watch my “Other” eat potato chips and pizza and feel downright homicidal. I am pretty sure that this food rage is a genetic thing. Once when I was seven I tried to take a tater tot off my moms plate and she speared me with her fork….I get it now Mom, I understand….