First of all, let me just go ahead and put it out there: The photo isn’t of me. I’ll admit that there are some similarities—especially around the eyes, but that picture is of Wilbur, my African Dwarf Frog, who I’ve mentioned a few times in the past. After watching the Victoria Secret fashion show the other night with me, Wilbur decided that it was his time to shine, so he submitted some of his best shots for my consideration. I explained to him that my blog was typically G-rated, and I wasn’t sure how my readers would feel about the nudity, but although I strongly disagreed, he thought you’d all be mature enough to handle him in his full glory.
Honestly, I’m more than happy to not be the focal point for this entry. Just because it’s my blog, doesn’t mean that it always has to be about me. I mean, who do I think I am? Oprah? Because my readers know me, there is no need for me to always be the “face” of every entry. I’m sure some of you could pick me out of a police lineup based on my left elbow alone. That noted, I’m sitting this one out to allow Wilbur to have the limelight he’s always dreamed of. And, who knows, maybe there is some big-shot talent agent that is looking for a frog to star in the next big action movie alongside Tom Cruise. It will have all started right here!!!
Oh, and although his pose may be a little concerning to those of you that don’t know him personally, he’s not dead. Instead, he is lying upside down on his back—which is completely unnatural for him—because I’d just informed him that it had been over two months since I’d posted anything. So, in true diva fashion, he flipped over on his back in exasperation. It was either that or he got upset because I’d arrived home a few minutes later than expected and made him miss the first few minutes of “Extreme Couponing.” Just like his owner, Wilbur loves a bargain.
Anyway, so much has happened since my last posting. I turned thirty-three, finished another semester of school, went to the gym once, received two red-light-camera tickets, and visited the doctor for my annual health inspection and tune-up—not necessarily in that order, though. Now, I know that nothing short of a bout with tiger shark flu would serve as an acceptable reason for keeping me away so long, but in my defense, if you look at the big picture, I haven’t exactly been slacking off, even though I’ve somehow managed to squeeze in every episode of “Undercover Boss,” “New Girl,” and “The Mindy Project.” Yup, I’ve been pretty busy. That’s my story, and that’s what I’m sticking to.
Let’s start with the red-light-camera tickets, shall we? So, I was minding my own business on the way home from work one evening when I noticed several quick flashes of light while I was making a right turn at a red light. Since I am sometimes mistaken for Prince Harry, I assumed the flashing lights meant that the paparazzi had finally figured out where I lived, so they were hiding in the bushes on that corner to get candid shots of me for the tabloids. Because of this, I believed that it was in my best interest to shoot right through the light as quickly as possible as long as I beeped the horn twice to give the pedestrians sufficient time to get out of the way.
Well, a few weeks later, instead of receiving a glossy magazine with a picture of me breezing through traffic on the cover, I received a ticket in the mail for $75 because I’d allegedly run a red light. Since the fine wasn’t worth me taking a day off work to go to court and proclaim my innocence, I opted to just pay the ticket. However, when a second ticket arrived a few days later with photos and a link to video footage of
me someone allegedly turning at a red light without stopping, I decided that enough was enough. I called for backup. And there was only one person that I could think of that could help: Barbara Walters.
When Barb opted to not return any of my calls, I decided to take matters into my own hands. If I was going to fight “the man,” I was going to have to do a little research first. My findings were absolutely shocking. Apparently, red lights and stop signs are not optional. Even if you are simply making a right turn, you must come to a complete stop before doing so—even if nothing is coming for miles and miles. You absolutely must not roll right through them at over 13 MPH like I did in both of the speed camera videos. Who knew? See, just when you thought you couldn’t learn anything from my little blog, here I am passing on wisdom and giving you a driver’s education refresher. I should put “teacher” on my resume.
Another troubling incident that happened over the past few months, took place during a recent trip to my doctor’s office. The visit started off well enough. I paid my copay, and the transaction miraculously went through. I was shocked. Usually they just cut up my card and escort me out of the building. After the receptionist and I high-fived each other due to my good fortune, I was then escorted down the hall toward the scale. That’s when things took a turn for the worse.
OK, everyone knows that I’m kind of a foodie, especially if it’s bad for you. Don’t give me a vegetable unless it’s fried. If you hand me something low in fat, cholesterol, or sodium, I’ll probably end up hurling it back at you and demand that you put some butter on it until I’m pleased. However, recently I’ve been trying to make better food choices by not eating out as much and replacing fatty foods with something healthier. Because of that, I wasn’t afraid of the scale because I knew it would be the first time that things tipped in my favor. Surely, that one time I had a grilled chicken sandwich instead of a burger would have to pay off.
As I watched the numbers fluctuate, I felt like I was on “The Price Is Right.” I even clapped and yelled, “Big money!” I knew the first digit would be a one because there was no way that I was over two hundred pounds. No surprise there. But as I watched the second digit rise from a six, to a seven, and finally to an eight, my heart dropped. When the last numbers finally stopped at a whopping 189.9, I slapped the nurse and demanded a do over. She then slapped me back and said, “It is what it is. You’re fat, so get over it, you [insert expletive here]!!!”
When I met with the doctor, she reintroduced me to one of my enemies: the body mass index (BMI) chart. Whereas a person considered “normal” would fall below a 25 on the chart, I was at a 29. Even if I rounded my height of 5’8 up to 5’9, I was still solidly ranked within the overweight category. To further put things in perspective, when a person goes over 30 on the BMI chart, they are considered obese. One more French fry, and I’m pretty much done. Feeling fat, sad, and dejected, I hoisted myself off the examining table and slunk down the hall the way you’d expect someone of my immense proportions would. That hour I’d spent at the gym and that salad I’d suffered though instead of a burger turned out to be all for nothing.
So, my dear readers, if you’ve learned anything from this blog entry, I hope you’ve learned the importance of not being a fat red-light runner. Not that being a normal red-light runner is any better, but if you have a choice, take it from me and try not to be a fat one. Maybe if I weighed just a few pounds less, I wouldn’t have set off the red-light camera. My skinny friends never complain about getting tickets in the mail. Surely, there has to be some relation. I mean, if I don’t get things in check now, one day I may find that I no longer have the energy or flexibility to keep up with the dance moves from the latest Justin Bieber video. And who wants that? Oh, and before I forget to mention it, my doctor said that if I keep eating the way I do and not exercising as I should, I’ll be lucky if I live through the end of this senten…
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