While working at my favorite coffeeshop today, I’m throwing glances over to the counter, to the dome of glass that sheltered what was a half-loaf of chocolate banana bread when I got here. With AM turned to PM, there might be a slice left. It’s hard to tell since the remnant has fallen facedown on the plate without its siblings to lean on, resigned to its fate. I really want to eat it, but I’m resisting because of my dang spare tire.
After a few months of snowbirding in Florida and nearly no denial of Chick-fil-A urges, I can just feel the insulation forming around my midsection. I catch myself pressing around my ribs and hips in public, trying to estimate my weight gain by touch. Ed Grimley comes to mind:
My weight hasn’t climbed, but I’m sure it’s because I’ve avoided the gym, since it doesn’t serve fried chicken sandwiches and waffle fries. I’m trading the muscle gained from a consistent year of workouts for fat.
While we’re in Florida, I’m not sure if I can get back on the health wagon. We walk about 80% less than we do in NYC, and there’s no Trader Joe’s, home of our favorite healthy foods, for 100 miles. Also, I have to drive 15 minutes to the gym instead of just walking a couple of blocks.
I admit these are all pretty low barriers to healthy living. I can go walking or drive to the gym whenever I want. I’m just out of my element, out of our rhythm of life. I keep telling myself I’ll be walking, working out and wolfing down kale when we return to the city. Yes, the city will make it all better.
Until then, that last slice of chocolate banana bread looks awfully lonely…