The pain in my lumbar spine of recent memory has been gone for one full week, and the lights of the gym across the street are once again mocking me. I have little regard for this, and even less shame; I am from Buffalo, and there are no illusions of grandeur. I am more than willing to try and try again. If the Bills can do it, so can I. After heaping plates of kielbasa and ham this weekend, my belly has grown to a size that screams nine months gestation. The baby's got to go.
After Mass this evening the spouse and I drove to Wegman's (the finest grocery store on earth) that I might purchase some low-calorie lunches for the coming week. You know the kind; It takes ten minutes to prepare them, thirty seconds to eat them, and ten seconds to realize that this is not enough food, for the love of God. We also purchased a lovely statue of St. Francis for the garden, and three six-packs of flavored water. You may ask, where did St. Francis come into this? Frankly, he was there standing among plaster squirrels, and appeared in need of a rescue. I am certain St. Francis is as annoyed by squirrels as I am.
For our dinner I have half a ham, five pounds of fresh kielbasa, five pounds of smoked, and a big bag of the sister-in-law's famous home-made pierogis made with potatoes, cheese and bacon, all sitting in my refrigerator right now. Not to mention the sour-cream cheesecake. There are cucumbers, but the missus plans on soaking their paper-thin slices in sour cream and half-and-half. Yum. For lunch? Lean Cuisine chicken and fettucini. Two words come to mind: why bother.
And so I join humanity in promising to change tomorrow, to indulge for just one more day and then finally take this all seriously. As I binge on pork products for one last hurrah I will pray for the strength to do what must be done to melt the flab from my straining frame. I think I'll ask for the intercession of St. Francis. He owes me for rescuing him from squirrels.