It’s Friday and Old Navy is having a sale on jeans this weekend.
I’ll give you a minute to wipe up whatever fluids just exploded out of you in excitement over that announcement.
Since I require a couple of pairs for the duration of Chicago’s predictably unpredictable spring-esque period as it teeters toward short-pants weather, I stopped into the Old Navy near my shrink’s office to make that very purchase.
They only had one pair that I liked there, so I hopped on my bike and headed to work, happy to have only spent $20 (really, it’s a good sale). And then I pedaled by a Gap storefront announcing 30% off on shorts.
So I locked the bike up, grabbed a pair of snazzy plaid cargos for just
over $20 and subsequently sped Mr. Skin-ward, pleased as a poo-inducing punch that I stayed within my allotted pantaloon budget and that both garments measure 38 inches in the gutty/love-handely area.
But now there’s no more purchasing to be done until I hit a 36.
Rabid shopping with my brain disconnected from my wallet, especially for clothing (after all, I am quite the fashion plate), has cropped up in the past decade as a another maniacal compulsion for me so this, too, must be forcibly governed.
Yes. This is what I write about now. This. Yes.
And, yes, if my penis-and-testicles hadn’t gotten me into so much trouble my whole life I, too, would swear I was a woman.
But I’m not, and I’m ecstatic to have the one that I do, the one that takes these photos each week, and sustains me with lean protein, soy formations, and gardeny treats.
I have eliminated any form of frozen dairy dessert from my chow roster, and have hit upon sugar-free 
Arizona Iced Tea mixes as the ideal compliment to my Morningstar meatlessness, ground turkey, sweet potatoes, mixed greens, and various nut-and-seed butters.
These alterations are paying off. Not that you can necessarily tell from these pictures (yet), but I’m steadily getting closer to getting that XL t-shirt comfortably further removed from my corporeal massness.
And I have stopped snoring.
But not farting.
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Congratulations! You might be able to look down and see your pecker without the aid of a mirror. That’s my personal goal. Keep going McLardo!
Hope that this blog serves as an inspiration to me….but to do so would require I give up the massive amount of heavy beers I consume in a single sitting. I really would be happier though shedding some weight. I’m clueless for the most part but when I see a photo of myself I grow depressed. Was Oliver Hardy really all that fat? NO!
Ahhh, nut butter. In a desperate moment today I almost drank a diet coke but I thought of your musings on diet coke and decided against it.
Brainpang, beer is indeed a barrier to a svelte figure…take it from someone who knows.