Everyone is resolving to get healthier this year—maybe I should get on the bandwagon. I guess the first thing I should do is get up at six a.m. and head to the gym, whether I have a raging red wine hangover or not. Then I’ll get that blender ready so I can CLEANSE with some foul-tasting smoothie made of rotten vegetables and frozen fruit and a package of crazy weight-loss solution containing one hundred doses of caffeine. Afterwards, I’ll be going to the ER with a heart attack and intestinal distress, but HEY! I’LL BE GETTING HEALTHY!
Just kidding. I’m not going to do any of that stuff. I’ll just take another trip to the therapist and lament the fact that I won’t be joining in on all the “get healthy” merriment amongst my friends.
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I will, however, start unfriending the bitches who actually do check into the local gym at six a.m. Because I hate them. Like, I really, really think they suck. As I sit on my couch with my sugar-filled coffee and a Cinnabon, I glare at their posts and think: “Why are you ruining it for us normal people?”
I continue to mull this over while taking my dogs on a walk—a seventy-pound husky and a fifteen-pound psychotic terrier. Running away from the diarrhea that my husky does on the neighbor’s sidewalk is the most exercise I’ve gotten in a week. I mean, you can’t scoop that up in a bag. I pray for rain. And also less exercise.
I have made some wellness resolutions, but they are more along the lines of giving up the sneaky cigarettes I smoke while hiding behind the dumpster at the local Walmart, so I won’t run in to one of my skinny yoga-pants-clad neighbors. And I really need to stop using my granite countertops for my occasional cocaine habit. And with the state of the world as it is, I am seriously going to have to delete all the porn off my computer.
But cleansing? Are you kidding me? Kale was a WEED ten years ago. Back in the eighties, the only spinach we got in our salads was smothered in bacon fat. No, I cleanse my own way—with high-test coffee and a cigarette. Every. Morning. Clean as a whistle.
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Still, I think I’m going to get a colonoscopy. I am fifty, after all. And a cleanse that insurance pays for, with good drugs and an instant five-pound weight loss? That’s the best deal in town, people.