Monday, March 23, 2009


 Think about this: guilt has neither meaning or use. I don't feel guilty for eating a pizza the other night because it was, at the time, what I wanted to do. I had a combination of money and no desire to cook for myself. I do not feel guilty for  picking up the phone and dialing, then paying entirely too much money for a meal for one. I feel no guilt at eating the garlic and parmesan boneless wings because they were freaking tasty. I do nnot feel guilty for committing the acts of ordering and eating this food that, admittedly, may as well have been sculpted from cooking shortening.
That is not to say I am happy with the later consequences. I was overall satisfied with the taste and the consistency of the food itself and satisfied while digesting, however the late dinner leading to a weird sleep and the additional inch on my ever expanding waistline are not desirable effects and ones I tend to feel regret over. Thinking species wise: humans do not regret their actions so much as their consequences. I do nto feel bad for what I've done, just for what happened after and what has happened after on and on for years now.
I think at my lightest from puberty onto adulthood, I weighed 180 awkward pounds, possibly less than that. Now, I'm double that or more over the span of 12 years. I have a gym membership eating money and gathering dust. I have a cupboard and half a freezer full of things that are about as healthy as a kick in the face. I have a love of fast food that knows very few bounds and am about as picky an eater at home as you're ever going to find. It would appear I am defeating myself at the outset, like I am setting myself up for a spectacular failure. By admitting that I love unhealthy food and (here's the kicker) not being ashamed of it, it would appear that I am going to slip back into old habits, dip my toe in the grease from time to time to make sure it's still scalding hot.
You know what? I am. I will. I'm okay with that. I am prepared to accept the consequences of my actions happily if I enjoy what I'm doing. I'm not going to see a doctor about a major weight loss program. I'm not going to jump onto the bandwagon of the next fad diet. I'm not going to jump hardcore back into going to the gym. The improtant thing is I'm not going to feel bad about myself for not doing these things. What I just did, however, was walk around my office building in the northeastern, industrail area of London while listening to some mid-90s Canadian alterna-pop (Sandbox's "Curious") and make myself a cup of mint tea. Thus far today, I've had:

-a peanut butter sandwich using a calabrese roll
-a chicken sandwich with margarine and there's another waiting in the lunch room fridge
-an extra large coffee with three creams and three sugars
-a sip of tea which is probably long cold by now, sitting on the kitchen counter
-a pack of yan-yan, Japanese cookie sticks that you dip in frosting.

Somehow it does not seem like a whole hell of a lot yet after writing it down, it makes me wonder how much it really adds up to and, if I am conscious of that, how much will it decrease?
So chronicling physical activity and consumption as a method to chart progress sounds good but there's no point in charting if I'm about to chow down on 10 chicken mcnuggets and double cheeseburger with just ketchup and mustard. I've eaten out a lot over the past 5 days. I mean a lot. So here is the big stipulation of Minus The H: No eating out alone. No rotten ronnies, burger queen, fairy queen, pig tailed bitch, slippery beef, pizza the hutt, grease-your-way, little skeezers, any given shawarma place, sports bar, sub shop, doughnut shop, what have you.
There are three exceptions. The first one isn't even an exception as it is implied already but while I will not eat out alone, if I am in a social situation or heaven forbid a date, then eating out is allright. Second, if I am visiting another city and do not have the option to waltz into a grocery store and leave with a bun and something from the deli, light fare is an option. Finally, eating nibbleables at doughtnut shops and cafees may not be allowed but I drink coffee like it's water and that is not changing anytime soon.
So here is where I go for the dedication. Is it weird to dedicate a blog? I suppose calling it a progressive novel may allow me to get away with it. Still, I'm going to dedicate it in part to my dad's side of my family who needs it, my mom who tries as hard as she can to drop pounds (not that she really needs to) but most of all to my friend Roger who began this idea really by asking me if I think regret exists.
Also, I just ate the sandwich in the fridge. It's taken me hours to write this mainly because I am at work and sneak in a sentence or two when I can. When I get home from work tonight it will be late, like 10:30 at night late so not very late by my standards but still late when it comes to cooking large meals. Not that this will stop me.

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