Monday, November 29, 2010

Fat Monday

Since late September, I craved the calories of Thanksgiving.  I closed my eyes and envisioned a 15 pound turkey roasted to perfection sitting atop a nest of parsley on a large platter.  I poured over recipe books trying to find new ways to snazz up the traditional green beans and mashed potatoes.  Then, last week I made a meticulous grocery list with the items listed in the order of the store aisles:  produce, condiments, canned goods...  Alan and I made a special trip to the store one evening and wandered the aisles together each throwing little extra items into our cart that were totally unnecessary impulse buys.  It was a festive occasion, indeed.

Last Thursday, we crowded into our kitchen with Mimi and Nana all day long slaving over the hot stove.  Alan washed the dirty pots and pans as fast as we shoved them in his direction.  We, in turn, took the clean pans and put them back to work on the stove.  It was almost like we had one conveyor belt of dishes head towards the post and another heading back into the war zone.  We nibbled and tasted and nibbled some more.  "Too much sage?"  "Does this need more salt?"  "You should totally add more butter to that!"  

Today as I sit with my arms resting on the platform of my belly, I couldn't be paid $1000 to eat another morsel of shoepeg corn casserole or pecan pie.  I can eat Mexican food twice a week for the rest of my days, but, it will be close to 365 days before I can eat another plate of Thanksgiving feast fare.  I sent leftovers home with Alan's mom and my mom.  Alan's mom took home the turkey carcass for broth-making after I assured her that a carcass left at my house was a carcass headed to the dumpster.  The boys declined our offer to send them back to Baylor with an uncut pumpkin pie and a frozen brick of dressing.  There were no takers for the remnants of Brussels sprouts with toasted pecans.  My refrigerator shelves are bare except for a few hoarded black olives and some sweet pickled gherkins.


Every year on the Monday after Thanksgiving, I cry "uncle" and swear that I'm going to head to the gym for two-a-day workouts.  Yessiree.  I go to bed on the eve of "Fat Monday," with fixed determination.  I will work out.  I will work out.  I will work out.  This morning at 7:30, Alan woke me with a kiss before he  headed out the door to work.  I stumbled out of bed sore from decorating every nook and cranny of our home for Christmas over the weekend.  Glancing in the bathroom mirror at my bedhead and puffy figure, I realized that the Prince's kiss did not awaken a Princess.  Nope.  Just me.  On Fat Monday.  Staring eyeball to eyeball at the mess of me in the mirror, I sighed and shrugged.  Alan's birthday is this week.  His mom's birthday is next week.  Our 31st anniversary is the next week.  Then, Christmas.  Nope.  It's definitely a bad time to begin sweating at Bodyworks.


So, here I sit at my computer in my blue and white seersucker robe, barefoot, with morning breath.  Still full as a tick from the plate of turkey, dressing, and cranberry sauce that I choked down last night in front of the TV, I have decided to forego my bowl of Total until at least 9:30AM.  I'll nosh on Lean Cuisine spaghetti with meat sauce around 1:30PM.  Let's see...dinner...dinner...dinner?  Something with black olives and sweet gherkins to be sure.  For now, I'm going to power walk to my bathroom for a hot shower to limber up my sore muscles.  Then, I'll make a meticulous grocery list and head back to United for a cart full of food so that we can make it through the week.  Maybe I'll even pick up a few impulse buys like Slice and Bake sugar cookies with magic middles that look like reindeer.  


Fat Monday, I'll do you proud. 

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