Paula Deen is Out to Get Me

The mornings in New York have finally become crisp and chilly and the idea of getting out of bed is pure torture. This morning all “A” would have had to say is “stay” and I would have stayed. Oh, “A” if you only knew the power you have over me. I mean seriously, there is nothing more inviting then staying in bed wrapped up next to another warm body. The only thing that would have made it even better would be a Grande Skim Latte and a stack of magazines. Sadly, “A” is in no way an errand runner, so I would have had to procure these things myself.

As I sit here sipping my hot-chocolate (60 calories, I count everything people, everything), actually, I have a hot-chocolate, a coffee and water. This is what I call a beverage sampler… anyway, as I sit here sipping my hot-chocolate I am reminded of my semester abroad in Paris. Every morning we would wake-up before class, go down to the hotel’s dinning room and eat pain du chocolate while drinking au chocolate. The amazing thing is that I actually lost weight when I was in Paris. This was thanks to the sudden activity in my life. Being from Michigan I barely walked anywhere, so suddenly being in Paris and walking everywhere, not to mention having to take five flights of stairs to get to my room, attributed to my not ballooning to an even greater volume from my daily chocolate croissants. And this is a miracle given that on discovering that McDonald’s in France still served fried apple pies (many years ago the US McDonalds starting baking theirs, of course they also started selling 2 for a dollar, which makes me think why really does anyone need to eat 2 apple pies? I’m guessing that one fried one is still less calories than two baked ones. And don’t even bother lying to me and saying you only eat one. If you’re the kind of person who buys apple pies at McDonalds you’re eating both), anyway with the fried apple pies calling to us, my roommates and I, like the good Americans we were, would walk over there (honestly practically run sometimes) in order to get our fried pastries before McDonald’s closed at 11PM.

This last week has been one of the more challenging for me when it comes to the gym. I just haven’t had my mental game there. Honestly, I hate that, knowing that somehow my mind is trying to sabotage me and keep me from wanting to workout. Why brain why are you trying to keep me fat? I’m sure some therapist would have a theory on my desire to remain unhappy or maybe my pathetic laziness. No matter what it is, I did drag my butt to the gym on both Saturday and Sunday (go me!) and proceeded to not only let Carl (yes, I love you but hate you Carl, really why are you so obsessed with making my arms ache?) kick my butt on Saturday morning. Not to mention suffering through the hell that was cardio.

Now, I’m certain you’ve been reading this post and have been thinking yes, HRH, your lack of desire to get out of bed, your enjoyment of a pain du chocolate, your reminiscing about Paris all make for fascinating reading, but what has Paula Deen done to you? Well, people I will tell you, she’s trying to torture me. Paula Deen is attempting to sabotage all my hard work. Yes, Paula you think you’re slick but I am on to you.


Yesterday, despite the fact that even as I was climbing the stairs to the treadmill I felt I did not want to run, I still got my butt on that thing and did it. And the whole time, the entire time I’m there trying to focus, telling myself lies like, you only have to run for 5 more minutes and then you are done, there is Paula Deen up on the screen cooking and eating. Yes, because it isn’t enough for Paula to cook away adding sticks of butter and heaps of sugar to her recipes she also has to stand there and eat them. Thankfully Paula does not have a body I envy, so as I watch her dip her fingers into her lemon bars I try to think, “see Paula this is why you look that way” (that’s right, not only do I judge but I’m mean and shallow). The bigger question here, is why? Why does the gym play the Food Network? Shouldn’t they be broadcasting something that is motivational? My theory is that there is a bitter fat girl responsible for choosing the programming and that she gets a good laugh out of watching me practically cry as Paula whips up on of her zillion calorie treats. It’s so bad that I have to just look away, even if it means I end up watching sports.

As I finish writing this blog, I sit here eating my high-fiber, low-sugar oatmeal and I can’t help but think about the oatmeal I ate growing up. My mother would make us a nice little packet of Quaker oats and on top she would add a pat of butter, a few teaspoons of sugar and a little milk, I think Paula would approve.