Bo-ring

I hate to say it, but I'm bored. Bored of uncrispy, ungreasy spinach, broccoli, zucchini, tomatoes, sweet potatoes, and the occasional head of cabbage. Lately, I wish every vegetable entering my mouth were smothered in tempura batter.

And I'm bored of staring at the same shimmery, sea-green curtain in my living room each time I work out. I'm bored of counting reps, talking to the door (the same door) which holds my elastic band.

It's kind of depressing to jump and squat and pull, all the while staring at walls. I need a change of scenery! Mirrors that make me look like wonder woman! Gigantic flat screen TVs and reality shows in which I can lose myself (instead of find myself, perhaps, which is what seems to be happening a lot these days).

Any other PCPers out there who've started talking to themselves lately? My inner monologue is so out of control, I'm beginning to scare myself. I hear voices (sometimes Patrick's). I find myself looking at every vegetable I pass on the street, going, Oooh! What could I do with you, seasonal beauty? No produce is safe.


Another moment of boredom occurred when I had my "indulgence." That was a snooze fest and a half. I hyped it up so much in my mind. What I should have done was just "indulge" with the first thing that popped into the crave-zone/sphere of my brain come 6 p.m. on Thursday: Yogurtland.

God knows of what that stuff is made. I hope it's less fake than some of that other crazy low-cal ice cream out there, but Yogurtland too makes outrageous promises. You know, they claim a mountain of some airy chemical sweetness called Mounds Peanut Butter Fudge Nut Swirl Cake is like, 60 calories a pint or something. I'm exaggerating, but the calorie count is suspiciously low. Still, I love it! Creamy, sweet, and totally custom made.

I was all set to do it, when the inner monologue started firing away. Yogurt and fruit for your indulgence? BO-ring. Yeah, it's not boring if you smother it with piles of Butterfinger bits and Fruity Pebbles!
Instead, I planned this whole elaborate day with my boyfriend in Jackson Heights -- where I'd be strategically placed to sample any number of ethnic cuisines: Brazilian, Indian, Korean, Chinese, Thai, Malaysian, Greek...I love Queens, dude!

We chose Malaysian. I was my usual undecided self. He just laughed and talked me through all the food decision making processes: Sweet or salty (or both?). Noodle or rice? Curry or steamed? Nothing really stood out to me. I wanted to go home and think about it some more, but this wasn't an episode of Seinfeld, so I just went with something that looked enticing: a coconut curry soup that once I tasted, realized I could have made at home. The noodles were all hard and yellow - a step up from Cup O'Noodles. There was not a green insight. The thing wasn't even picture worthy.

And the protein? So skimpy. The soup contained like two shrimp and a couple shreds of chicken. The broth was an oily mess, so I tried not to slurp up too much of that. Dessert was a peanut pancake (we shared), which felt like chunky Skippy spread on a sweet tortilla with a bit of honey.

Do you feel sorry for me yet?

Therefore, I felt justified in consuming two glasses of wine and a vodka on the rocks while we watched the Oscars! And I fell asleep on the couch and thus did not complete my work out, even though my boyfriend had the pull-up bar in place, even though I was all geared up for it after my totally unworthwhile carbo-loading. I just crashed.

The morning after I had a bit of a stomache ache, a little wooziness, but not much else. I was annoyed at myself for going overboard with the drinks, but in the end, I didn't feel too much regret (maybe because I passed out before I could process).

I look at food like medicine these days, which is kind of cool and practical and liberating (not every moment has to be a sensual explosion/party in your mouth). I dutifully take in my grams without much joy (and hopefully there's a placebo effect here). Hopefully this week's dosages will serve as a "remedy" for Sunday's slip ups.