Hit the gym today, because it was a weekday. I know I know: who cares. This is not about that. It is not about the ritual and routine, the way I start with the machine I like the least, lat pull-downs, although my reasons for not liking it seem to have dissipated. Time to up the weights, then, and spend a week recovering from that. Then the Abs Crunch, while I look across the room at the cheerful young lady on the screen of the rowing simulator.
She’s always saying something. I never know what it is. Then the Chestifyer and the shoulders, the leg press, the thudding run on the treadmill, then the bicep curls. It’s a routine, and needs shaking up.
Point is, I started a year ago, and aside from being out of town and weekends, I have not missed a day. Here’s another thing: remember a year ago when I went all Keto on everything? I never stopped. The unexpected consequence, the one I would not have predicted:
I have absolutely lost all interest in popcorn.
This makes me wonder why I used to eat popcorn at all. I used to have a bag of the Skinny Bitch or whatever it was called every night, a small bag, low caloric impact - supposedly - but the last time I made proper popcorn, with oil and butter and salt at the like, it was . . . somewhat gross. I have no interest in potato chips, which is odd, because they’re fantastically delicious, right?
I have never lost my love of baked goods - I’ve just reduced it to the status of Indulgence. The bun on a burger or brat, the weekend bagel or English muffin. A slice of a baguette is paradise. A croissant with butter and jam is HEROIN METH COKE. But it’s rare.
I don’t really miss anything. I have my ice cream on the weekends, along with pizza - although I have less, and the crust is thin, not a doughy mattress. The end result: I had to buy a new wardrobe, and this time I found things that fit. But I still have all the old pants, as if there will be a day when I fall off the wagon and say aw to hell with it what is the point, have a bagel for Tuesday breakfast. And do it again tomorrow.
I probably could.
But here’s the thing: I just assume the Old Ways lead to incremental encorpulance. Because they probably will. On the other hand who cares if it does?
I mean, I’m 65, I’m basically invisible.
Let's empty out the Misc Folder and see what I put aside from some reason.
Ah: a typical Target moment.
There was a run on store-brand worcestershire sauce, I guess. I had this item on my list. Probably buy it once a year. Sorry! We're Target, and we don't care anymore.
Ah, also at Target:
From the site:
Ghetto Gastro is a global mainstay of food as culture using ancestral ingredients to bring a multitude of flavors and recipes to eaters everywhere. Our collective uses food as a tool to tell stories about where we come from and the cultures that inspire us, generating excitement by merging the cooking traditions of Black, brown, and Asian folks in a high-quality, healthy fashion.
Okay fine but this is what Target carries:
Also pancake mix and syrup.
I wish them well, and yes I would like a PB&J toaster pastry, especially if it's not inedible flaky cardboard like Pop-Tarts.
I checked the ingredients:
Enriched Unbleached Wheat Flour (Wheat Flour, Niacin, Reduced Iron, Thiamine Mononitrate, Riboflavin, Folic Acid), Strawberry Filling (Cane Syrup, Glycerin, Apple Powder, Tapioca Maltodextrin, Modified Tapioca Starch, Strawberry Puree, Natural Flavor, Pectin, Citric Acid, Red Cabbage [Color]), Sugar, Coconut Oil, Natural Flavor, Salt, Cream Of Tartar, Citric Acid, Baking Soda, Vegetable Juice Powder (Color).
What's missing? HFCS. The classic Pop-Tart has "sugar, corn syrup, dextrose, high fructose corn syrup, soybean and palm oil."
Try not eating any of those for a week and see how you feel.
One more thing: nothing says Ghetto like . . .
But of course the word "ghetto" is being redefined and reclaimed, I suspect. Probably been going on for a long time; last step is bringing it to Target.
Also in the folder: something I clipped from a 1976 paper.
Don't think you could do this today:
What is Eddie doing in the desert
The Man of the Desert is walking aoriund with a martini glass and, apparently, ready-made cocktails.
The Firehouse project still rises. It's still in that ugly chicken-pox phase.
My office in the autumn mist.
There's no explanation offered, but you suspect some worried relatives called Mr. Lawson.
This seems to depend on knowing something very specific to the time.
Solution is here.
This year's old newspaper feature: a social no-no single-panel illustration. Can you figure out what's wrong?
The answer will be provided on Monday. I think we all know where this one is going.
That will do! Thank you for your visits, and I'll see you on Monday.