We’re officially halfway through Insanity. This recovery week couldn’t have been more well timed, given that I’m traveling Thursday-Sunday. I managed to lose 9 pounds in the first leg, coming in at 153 pounds on Saturday morning, after a long basketball session on Friday night.
Won four games in a row, came up just short in the fifth, and walked off the court on my own power. Again, I got buckets on some poor 16 year old kid. Look at me go. I could throw a football over those mountains over there.
In April, playing 3 games would have killed me. This is tangible progress.
Obviously, I celebrated with a Saturday eating binge. Chipotle burrito for lunch, and some kind of spicy chicken Chinese mall creation for dinner. A damn-near gallon of sweet tea.
I instantly felt like absolute crap.
(I followed this with a night out to celebrate, and avoided urinating on anything. Tangible progress.)
Last night at the Railhawks match, I didn’t have time for dinner at home, and grabbed some chicken tenders and fries, because hey, it’s recovery week.
Instantly felt weird.
Having eaten 94% healthy for the entire month, it became painfully obvious how quickly and badly fried/fast food can affect me. Given my already-shaky digestive system, it’s best to stay away. So this is it, fast food. We’ve had a good run, and I might give you a booty call occasionally, but we’re not getting back together. Ever.
You bring me down, make me feel like garbage, and keep me enslaved to the vicious cycle.
I’m forced to eat better though this process, but ironically, a lot of it has been my laziness. There’s a little cafe on the 1st floor of my building, which has your typical sandwich/soup/salad fare. I end up there about four times a week, because it requires minimal effort.
Indeed, I have improved my diet through pure laziness.
As for the rest of the ‘recovery’ week, I hope to get some hoopage in tonight before the Heatles dismantle the Celtics. I’ll be in beautiful Turlock, Calif. for Thursday-Sunday, celebrating the Riley nuptials.
My goal at the very least is to get in a good run at least twice, and have a whirlwind summer romance with someone I meet on the plane.
I don’t mean Mile High Club, stuff, y’all. I mean like Nicholas Sparks shit, where she joins me in my Chevy Aveo and comes to the wedding as my +1. We dance the night away to Eric Clapton, and then retire to the Fairfield Inn to cuddle on a cot. I awake at 4 a.m. clutching only a pillow, with a note that says ‘We’ll always have Turlock.’
I’ll later find out that she lives in Raleigh, and reconciled her relationship with her anesthesiologist fiancee upon her return. They’re due to be married in September. I run into her one day at Bed, Bath and Beyond as she’s loading towels into her cart. She gently smiles across the aisle. I walk away slowly, remember the glances we exchanged that night in the haze of a summer’s eve.
It was just the right place, at the wrong time.