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At this point in January, a lot of people have already given up on their New Year’s resolutions. Those lofty goals and promises have gone by the wayside as people realize that the $10 they paid to join that popular gym in town that has pizza night could have been spent on the pizza alone and not brought any kind of physical fitness into the mix.
My wife and I still belong to one of those places and we rarely go. I’m already on my feet a lot, so going to a place just to walk on a conveyor belt that simulates a hill or a machine that simulates 25 stories worth of stairs doesn’t seem so keen when I can sit at home in my recliner and eat ice cream.
Our house is one story, and there are no steps between me and the pistachio ice cream, chocolate sauce and whipped cream.
The last time we went to the gym, I felt worse leaving than I did before going. I was told you have to give it time, but I don’t like to come home from work only to go somewhere else to walk 10 miles. If I wanted to walk 10 miles, I would have left the car at home and walked a quarter of the way to work.
The place was filled with people just like us. The were tired-looking and overweight, middle-aged and bored. If it weren’t for the big-screen televisions and the free pizza, I think some of them would not be there.
I struck up a conversation with a guy on the treadmill next to me and he said he was there because his wife was at Hobby Lobby. He would have rather pushed himself into certain coronary failure than browse picture frames and seasonal doodads.
My wife was not at Hobby Lobby, but on the treadmill on the other side of me, listening to music through headphones and muttering obscenities she didn’t think people could hear. We both were sweaty and tired and didn’t seem to be enjoying ourselves, but that didn’t keep us from telling each other in the parking lot that we should do this more often and we felt great. I didn’t like lying to my wife anymore than I think she liked lying to me.
One afternoon, we were discussing our diet at Burger King. Between my Double Whopper with cheese and her chicken fries, we figured we probably weren’t eating as well as we should. I vowed that day to eat better. We both felt pretty lousy after leaving our table and I told my wife that this was the last time I would get the Double Whopper.
We went back the following week and I was true to my word. The regular Whopper was on a deal where you got two for six bucks. The Double Whopper meal was almost $9. I could be a little healthier and save a few dollars, right?
If you are keeping score at home, you can probably figure out that the math does not really add up and I am actually eating more Whopper than the Double Whopper once you figure in the toppings and bread. My wife’s meal stayed pretty much the same except she got a larger order of fries so she could “share.”
To sum it all up, my wife and I are both overweight, we eat what we want and we don’t like going to the gym. Recent doctor visits have shown we are reasonably healthy and what is wrong with us has nothing to do with our diet. We enjoy eating what we like to eat and as long as it won’t kill us, we’re going to stay the course.
My wife does not drink and I rarely do these days, so we don’t have to worry about that. I have not had a cigarette in 14 years. My wife does not smoke. We have that taken care of, so we should have a harmless vice or two. You do need to live a little.
My wife makes wonderful chocolate chip cookies. My mother has retired from making the dozens of Christmas cookies every year, so my wife has stepped up and she makes the same cookies my mother would make. The whole family fights over who gets more cookies. I could eat them all year, but my wife saves them for Christmas. She makes other delicious treats throughout the year and it’s only us at home these days, so we get to enjoy them ourselves.
I’ve been snacking as I have been writing this column. I’d probably be able to write for a little while longer, but I have a tendency to get verbose. Additionally, my bowl of ice cream is melting.
Joe Weaver, a native of Baltimore, is a husband, father, pawnbroker and gun collector. From his home in New Bern, he writes on the lighter side of family life.