Why The Count Is Always Ripped

Despite the fact that I have incredible powers of denial, it has come to my attention that I have once again put on a few extra pounds. It's nothing dramatic yet, but it needs to be dealt with before I expand back to my marriage weight (I'm not showing the pictures, but we were a monocle, top hat and umbrella from my lovely bride marrying the Penguin). As such, I've returned to the dreaded task of calorie counting.

Now, I cannot properly express my disdain for this practice. It's not that it's a bad thing. In fact, I think it's the only real path to me ever losing weight. Rather, I dislike it because it goes against one of my most deeply rooted habits. Not only do I love to eat, I love to graze.

This is an issue because I fail to realize how often I'm eating something without thinking about it. You go to work, and there's always someone who has a dish (or in my current case, a bucket) of candy free for anyone. I have a near physical inability to walk by such things without partaking. It's worse when someone trots out baked goods or, Bob forbid, the almighty doughnut. You might as well just throw them at me.

Then I start counting calories, and realize that each thing I pick up will not only count against me, but will involve work. I have to write it down or I'll forget I ate it. Then I have to look up the calorie, fat and protein content of the item. Then it goes on my chart, and the totals are recalculated. Fact is, my laziness contributes at least as much to any resultant weight loss as the concern over caloric intake, but hey, as long as it works, great.

Don't get the wrong idea here - I'm glad I'm doing it. It's just that when I'm trying to discuss work stuff, and I realize that I've looked at the bowl of Fun Size Snickers six times in the last minute, well...it's hard. I'm not an inherently strong person, taking most of my power from my lovely wife. (I actually do it while she sleeps. It's complicated, and there's chanting involved - send me an email if you need more information.) I was raised to face such adversity with an overwhelming "Oh, what the %#$@" followed by a gorging of such decadence it would make Caligula blush.

I will overcome my resistance though and follow through, if for no other reason than the rat bastards who make Desperate Housewives continue to ignore my pleas to let a couple of the male characters let themselves go a bit. I mean, these are supposed to be old married couples, right? Is it really necessary that Tom remain in his chiseled state? The guy owns a pizza place for Pete's sake (last I watched anyway). They need to let him kick back, knock down a few beers, eat some nachos, and bulk up a bit so I don't have to work so hard to compete.

Well, that or I could convince my lovely wife to only watch According to Jim, but that just seems so cruel.