This is How You Gain 20 Pounds of New Relationship Weight in One Year

beforeafter

October 2014. Graig and I meet for our first date on the second of the month and it’s like a total “OMG marry me now, K? K.” situation. The ensuing weeks involve frequent beer-and-wings-marathon sessions that turn into frisky all-nighters, which, as someone who requires a minimum of seven hours of sleep per night, is more than a little problematic. But I’m also euphoric at having finally found the man of my dreams, so mostly I just shout “YOLO!” in the face of my newfound fatigue. I develop a daily empanada craving, usually in the afternoons when the clock strikes four.

November 2014. We’re still riding high on our mutual infatuation, and I have officially accepted that skipping the gym and saying “fuck it” to healthy eating throughout the week will simply be my fate until our honeymoon phase starts to cool down, something I predict will happen just in time for Christmas, maybe.

December 2014. Christmas happens. Mariah Carey happens. Reclaiming my healthy eating and gym-going routine happens. JK! Instead, Graig and I go to football games where we tailgate and consume thousands of beer calories. Also, I randomly get into donuts, which is just silly. “Diet starts Monday after New Year’s!” is my new mantra.

January 2015. LOL. Who thought eating healthy would be a possibility when the Patriots are dominating in the playoffs? We go to every home game. My mantra becomes “Diet starts Monday after the Super Bowl!”

February 2015. THE PATS WIN and so this month is cancelled.

March 2015. IT’S MY 27TH BIRTHDAY and so this month is cancelled.

April 2015. Seven months into our love affair we’re still cruising high on our infatuation with one another, but I decide that I need to make a serious life change after my doctor confirms that I have indeed gained ten pounds. Which, honestly, she didn’t need to tell me because I felt like a blob of shit anyway. But the revelation serves as total motivation, as does the fact that Graig and I have a trip to Aruba slated for May. I randomly go through a deep Sheryl Crow phase and also I start running again, both of which allow me to close out the month feeling vaguely human.

May 2015. I get offered a new job as a full-time writer! It’s exciting and also a reason to celebrate and pig out for an entire month. My start date is June 1, after our decadent Aruba trip (during which I essentially eat the entire island), which happens to be a Monday. Diet starts Monday of my new job!

other

These are a few of my weight-gaining things.

June 2015. This shit is kinda stressful. It’s longer hours and a more difficult commute than I’m used to, so I start sleeping at Graig’s most nights because it’s closer to work. Of course this means that a) having a routine of any kind is basically impossible, and b) I can’t even pretend to go to the gym, because the one I’m a member of is literally fifty miles away. I start eating bagels for breakfast every morning while simultaneously contemplating a self-reinvention as an unapologetically overweight BHM, or big handsome man.

July 2015. It’s summer and I’m fat! I avoid the scale but I am so sure that I’ve gained at least a total of fifteen pounds by now. Clothes are getting tight but I can still more or less fit into them after I empty myself of the tears that go along with realizing my clothes are getting tight.

August 2015. Graig and I are at my best college friends’ condo for a fiesta of sangria and pasta and cigars. As we absorb the beautiful sights from their nature-y back porch, I get up to go to the bathroom. In doing so, a button literally pops off from the waist of my shorts and lands on Graig’s lap. It’s so fucking symbolic I could write a novel (and/or blog post) about it.

September 2015. You know that line in “Summertime Sadness” where Lana Del Rey is all “Nothing scares me anymore”? THAT’S HOW I FEEL. Except replace “scares” with “fits,” as I keep destroying my clothes simply by trying to, like, wear them.

What I’ve learned from this journey so far is that I’m such a (hungry hungry) hypocrite! If you’d asked me in 2014 why I kept a strict diet and gym routine, I’d have probably said, “Because I care about my health and it makes me feel good.” But, well, LOL, nope. It was really just to catch a dick. Humans are basic!

piantz

Those jeans ripped while I was trying to get into a car. It was cute!

October-December 2015. There is an end in sight; maybe we’re not so basic after all! Graig and I moved to a new place together in Jersey. The building has a very nice gym, which, combined with the stability of having a constant home, has allowed us to settle into something of a routine that involves whole wheat english muffins and morning workouts. So here’s to a 2016 that’s, like, healthy or something!

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Help! I Was a Total Asshole to the Girl Who Works at My Favorite Sandwich Shop

I have this routine where I eat healthy-ish throughout the entire week and then reward myself by getting ratchet on Friday night. Then I’ll wake up on Saturday and go straight to this delightful little neighborhood sandwich shop across the street from me and order a bacon, egg, and cheese on a whole wheat bagel with a medium iced coffee, and the ritual of it all (or maybe just the bacon) fulfills me in ways that the unconditional love of another human being a healthy, balanced breakfast never could.

So this past Saturday I hobbled into the sandwich shop at about ten o’clock. Please note that I barely slept the night before, so I was tired and weak and generally struggling to not sound like Christian Bale’s Batman.

  • Me: Hi. I’ll have a bacon egg and cheese on a toasted whole wheat bagel, and—
  • Girl taking my order: A medium iced coffee with milk only? I remember! [Smiles warmly.]

In my head: Oh! This is the moment in which I befriend the girl who works at the sandwich shop because I’ve been here so many times. If this exchange goes well, my future visits will involve her being all, “Hey Nic! How was your week? Getting the usual today?” and I’ll be like, “Yeah, girl!” and we’ll probably live happily ever after (or something).

I wanted to answer her with a self-deprecating and light response to ensure the above fate, maybe something like: “Haha, yep! That’s me. I’m boring and my order never changes. [Chuckle/smile.] Thanks.”

But on this particular morning my brain wasn’t working, because as stated before, I was tired and weak and generally struggling to not sound like Christian Bale’s Batman — so while I tried to formulate a sentence like the one above, I just couldn’t do it on such short notice, and so, fucking THIS ended up happening:

  • Me [Dryly]: Well, I’ve only ordered it about a hundred times, so… good.

WHO SAYS THAT TO SOMEONE? I’m sure this is exactly what I looked like in that girl’s head at that moment:

bageldebacle

After the dust settled, I gave an awkward half-laugh/half-look-of-disgust as I realized that I had responded to her in the way a total asshole – a total asshole for no reason, nonetheless – would have.

Meanwhile, she gave me a look that was half-shocked and half-“Ew, your attitude is fucking gross,” which, really, was generous. Because if the shoe was on the other foot and I was working at a sandwich shop and a customer talked to me like that, I’d have totally been like, “GET OUT OF MY KITCHEN, DICK. AND MAKE YOUR OWN DAMN ICED COFFEE.”

I spent the rest of my time in the shop waiting for my sandwich in what can only be described as a severely uncomfortable state of debilitating embarrassment and shame, which is yet to wear off entirely.

As another Saturday approaches, I find myself fraught with anxiety over how to move on with my bagel-eating life. I’ve narrowed down my options to the following:

  1. Banish myself from this particular sandwich shop (in a dramatic fashion and while listening to that “deception, disgrace” song from the Lion King 2 soundtrack, perhaps) forever.
  2. Continue on as if it never happened and just hope that the girl forgets about it and/or has a forgiving heart and/or has better things to do than give a shit about my antics in the first place.
  3. Explicitly acknowledge the blunder the next time I come in and say something like, “Hey, remember that time I was a total dick to you? Haha, sorry. It was a weird thing where my brain stopped working and couldn’t formulate the kind of sentence I wanted it to, and again, sorry. Sorry! Sorry!! LOVE ME.”
  4. Crawl into a hole and die… ?

Please feel free to cast your vote — and/or offer a better option — in the comments below.

P.S. When I told my brother this story he was like, “Really? You’re putting that much thought into this? Nic, you have issues.” So I guess Option 5 is to agree with him.

P.P.S. When I told my friend Steven this story he was all, “I’d have spit in your bagel if I were her,” and then I was like, “Yeah but can we talk about how difficult it was for ME?! At least she had the luxury of being the victim,” and really I’m only including this exchange here because I find it kind of hilarious but also a little fucked up that it was so easy for me to use “the luxury of being the victim” in a sentence without even a trace of irony, which I guess proves my brother right in that first P.S.

 

How to Have a Pleasurable Experience at the Dentist

I’d like to begin by stating that if you’re looking to have a pleasurable experience at the dentist, then I suggest you find yourself a dentist who, in addition to having a keen sense of empathy and a gentle touch with a tarter scraper, gives really great blowjobs.

Kidding! This isn’t that kind of blog post (and I’m not that kind of blogger; on Mondays, at least), and I apologize for being uncouth — dentists and blowjobs should never be mentioned in the same sentence, or within two sentences of each other, or even within the same paragraph for that matter, BECAUSE TEETH. Like, ow. Although I’ve heard some people are into that? I’m definitely not. Usually. Unless I’m in a mood and/or the dentist in question is actually Nick Jonas in pretend-dentist-scrubs, in which case he can do whatever he wants to me with his teeth, because he’s Nick Jonas in pretend-dentist-scrubs. You know what? This paragraph is getting weird and convoluted, not to mention fraught with too many commas. Let’s start over.

Last week I had an appointment for a routine teeth cleaning. I used to hate this type of thing, and I’ve only recently discovered that it’s because all my past dentists have been cold-hearted assholes who couldn’t even be bothered to lightly spray eucalyptus mist into the air or wrap my hands in a healing moisture treatment before sticking their tools in my mouth. (Dental tools, that is. I stand by the claim that my opening sentence was a joke!)

I can make all the diva-like demands I want to these days, though, because I now go to a dental spa. Mhm. A dental spa(hhh). This might make me a princess of sorts but I don’t give a shit because my dental spa is serene and majestic and yes, I’m using the Internet to write about a total first world problem right now that’s not actually a problem at all but is instead a first world solution (#blessed?), which probably makes it even more unhip to write about – but I don’t care because #YOLO (see image below) and I’m sensitive about my teeth.

dental spa checkinSo I was there, and everything was going great. Relaxing New Age music floated out of the speakers, my hands were luxuriously enveloped by the aforementioned moisture treatment (which, side note, feels a lot like having one’s hands licked by a fresh batch of angelic golden retriever puppies), and the massage chair pulsed in a soothing rhythm against my weary back as my dental hygienist poked and prodded her way around my gums without incident.

But then.

The massage chair went dead and I realized that its vibration was the main source of my Zen and so suddenly my Zen was gone and in an instant I became Brady Hobbes. That is to say, I became Miranda’s baby on Sex and the City when it was a total psycho (like all babies) and wouldn’t shut the fuck up until it was put into that weird vibrating baby-chair thing. (And then remember when Samantha babysat but the chair was broken or something and so she had to improvise with duct tape and a vibrator?) This was all a lot like that.

As I sat there painfully motionless, I asked myself, Who can live like this? Who can get their teeth cleaned without simultaneously being massaged by a chair? Might my dentist have a vibrator? WHY IS LIFE DOING THIS TO ME?

Within a few minutes, though, the dental hygienist stopped what she was doing and looked down at me.

“Oh!” she said. “Looks like your chair turned itself off. It does that every twenty minutes. Let me re-start it for you.”

I smiled and drooled onto my clip-on bib thing in response.

Once the chair was moving again and I had my essence back, I was able to return to my internal dialogue, which was mostly comprised of me writing this piece in my head and also mentally singing Lady GaGa’s “Do What U Want” while really meaning the lyrics – because as comfortable as I was, I still had to accept that there were sharp things in my mouth, and the line “you can’t have my heart, you won’t use my mind, but do what you want with my body” easily becomes a powerful affirmation in such a context.

The next song to get stuck in my head during this experience was City High’s 2001 anthem “What Would You Do?” in which a stripper has a defensive moment.

Why this throwback tune? Because at some point in the cleaning I decided to have the childlike epiphany that while I was only in the massage chair for an hour-long appointment, my dental hygienist was going to be in that office all day doing dental stuff, which of course made me imagine her taking me outside and sassily singing the lyric, “to you this is just a good time, but to me this is what I call LIFE, ooh-ooh,” at my face.

Next I asked myself, I wonder if  I’d be a good dental hygienist? and proceeded to get carried away ruminating on how the answer was so obviously LOL no because [if this blog post has taught us anything, it is that] I’m too self-involved.

Plus it takes me five minutes just to Windex my bathroom mirror because I have to go over the same spots thirty times each on account of my crippling fear of imperfection. So can you imagine how long I’d take per tooth? My patients would probably be like, “Hurry it the fuck up, Nic, you’ve had to reset my massage chair five times already and I’m getting restless,” to which I’d respond, “TO YOU THIS IS JUST A GOOD TIME BUT TO ME THIS IS WHAT I CALL LIFE!” and then they’d be like, “GET OVER YOURSELF, ASSHOLE,” and then someone’s gums would be stabbed and we’d all go to prison.

Or: I’d breeze through cleanings quickly and lose the ability to give a shit about perfection anymore because, “Hey, they’re not my teeth,” which I’m pretty sure would make me an even shittier person than I was in the above gum-stabbing scenario.

“Okay, Nicolas, you’re all set!” my dentist said, abruptly jolting me out of my imagination by giving me a delightfully steaming hot washcloth on a plate and removing my hands from their moisture gloves. “How do they feel?”

“Like they’ve been licked by a fresh batch of angelic golden retriever puppies,” I wanted to say. But then I realized she was probably talking about my teeth.

 

Dude, Eat Carbs While You’re Out: The Struggle for Body Confidence

Editor’s Note: After three years in the game, this is my 100th blog post! To honor the occasion, I’m stepping outside my comfort zone of humor and posting a thoughtful essay on body image. I’m also doing this because I skipped the gym twice this week and I’m pissed at myself for being pissed at myself about it, which sounds redundant because it is.

A few years ago I had a boyfriend – let’s call him Lionel – who accused me of being unfaithful. I wasn’t, but our relationship was in the process of unraveling and I had more or less withdrawn from him at that point, so I can’t say I was surprised by his bout of paranoia.

One day it led him to Facebook-message my ex-boyfriend.

“When you and Nic were together,” Lionel asked, “did you ever suspect he was cheating on you?”

My ex replied, “Nic? LOL.”

I’m able to quote directly because I uncovered the message history on Lionel’s computer one weekend while he was away for his army reserve duties and I was staying at his apartment. By then Lionel had already caved into his guilt and told me about the exchange himself, so these initial findings were more or less expected.

But then there was something else.

“By the way,” Lionel wrote right before signing off. “Nic is in really great shape these days.

“He’s super toned.

“Hot.”

I felt like he was insecure for me.

Throughout the course of our relationship, Lionel had always answered my habitual laments of, “Ugh, I feel really fat,” with military-inspired suggestions as to how to get in better shape. “So you agree?” I’d usually snap back, channeling my inner Regina George. “You think I’m really fat?”

I was 6’3” and weighed 170 pounds – thin – but that didn’t change the fact that I had some flab on me where there could have been muscle.

“Shut up,” he’d laugh. “You know I love your body the way it is. I’m just saying that if you want to tone up, I can help you.”

I eventually accepted the offer.

I love your body the way it is. I had always believed Lionel when he said this, but his comment to my ex-boyfriend that day suggested that perhaps he loved it more after I adopted his pushup routine. I mean, the proof was in the transcript. “Ha! You had soft-bodied Nic,” he might as well have declared. “But my Nic is better. My Nic is the one worth having.”

Of course. The One Worth Having: In really great shape these days.

Super toned.

Hot.

***

I’d always known men could be shallow.

When I was eight and nine years old, a few members of my dad’s old-school Italian family violently chucked fat slurs at my mom like jagged rocks at an innocent duck after she filed for divorce from him. “That fat bitch,” I heard them say to each other. “You fat bitch,” I heard them say to her face. “You’re divorcing him?”

Sometimes I wondered how much more diplomatic their divorce could have been if she had just dropped twenty pounds before filing.

It wouldn’t be too long before my friends expressed similar attitudes, openly discussing how they could never even think about being attracted to “fat chicks.” This sentiment pervaded my small hometown. I remember being at a friend’s house one day after school and getting caught up in a conversation about baseball cards or some shit when we accidentally left the television on whatever station aired the Rosie O’Donnell Show. His dad got home from work a few minutes later and asked, “What are you guys watching this cow for?”

I was a significantly overweight kid myself while all of this was going down, so I took everything a little more personally than I probably should have.

But! I’d tell myself. This is a female problem. Sure, some kids teased me for my weight, but the teasing never suggested that my fatness made me unlovable. When it came to love, it was always the men who didn’t want their women to be fat. Overweight guys got beautiful girls to marry them all the time; they just had to endure being jocularly called a fatass by their friends sometimes.

I’m ashamed to say that this fucked up, misogynistic double standard actually gave me comfort for a few years of my adolescence.

That is, until I’d remember that I was gay. Until I’d remember that I, too, would eventually have to possess a body worthy of male desire.

***

“I’m finally starting to realize that a good ninety percent of my insecurities stem back to my being a fat kid,” I lamented to my mom over the phone earlier this week. “And I’m so sick. I’m so sick of reflexively sucking my stomach in when I look in the mirror. And I’m so sick of hating myself on the days when I skip the gym. I’m so fucking sick of having to give a shit about any of this.”

“Believe me, Nic,” she said. “I get it.”

The craziest thing? I’m in really great shape these days. Super toned. Hot. People tell me all the time. Co-workers tell me after I casually turn down the birthday cake. Friends tell me after I yell, “If I have a double chin, we’re deleting this!” when we pose for group pics. My mom tells me when I call her on the phone having typical emotional upsets like the one referenced above.

People tell me I’m too skinny. In text messages and voicemails and Instagram comments.

starvingEat carbs while you’re out. Statements like these shouldn’t feel like compliments, except they do. The validation swoops me up and flies me around for maybe a good three seconds, but then it lets go just as quickly, flinging me down into a pit where the words GET YOUR ASS BACK TO THE GYM are etched into the surrounding dirt.

If the validation is coming from a man with whom I’m sleeping, maybe the high lasts closer to six seconds. But, oh. Since Lionel and I broke up, I can’t even tell you the number of dudes I’ve gone home with only to soberly decide in the eleventh hour that we can’t go through with hooking up because I don’t feel comfortable getting undressed with someone new and contorting into sexual positions that I know would make my stomach look – oh, my God – not flat.

When I do allow myself to go there with guys, I avoid bringing up the subject of fatness altogether out of fear that if they knew how much I really cared – how anxious and conscious and aware I can sometimes be of my body – they’d scrutinize it that much more.

Plus these aren’t just any men I’m dealing with – these are men like me.

***

Insecurities make no sense, and yet they do. Depending on your mood and vantage point they can either be silly little clowns or great, intimidating monsters. Sometimes both.

Most days I’m able to just point and laugh at how utterly absurd and hilarious my fat issues are, acknowledging all the bullshit that called them into existence in the first place and saying to myself, Wow. I’m so glad none of this shit actually matters in the end.

But then catch me on a shitty day and I’m capable of breaking down under the weight of it all – sometimes even to the point of calling my mom in tears and/or writing self-pitying personal essays about the Struggle for Body Confidence.

Of course I’ve perused enough self-help to know that everything is just a choice. At any moment we can choose to stop caring about other peoples’ perceptions and start loving our bodies as they are. Right. Fucking. Now. We can claim our power. We can strip ourselves of our clothes – whatever their sizes – and stand proudly, flipping off anyone who’s ever made us feel like the shapes of our stomachs have anything at all to do with the worthiness of our spirits. We can stop letting wounds get in the way.

On my best days, I’m actually capable of this.

Because deep down I know I’m worthy and important and loved. Because I know I’m talented and empathetic and smart. Because I know just how much more than a body I am.

But also — and it fucking kills me to say this — because I’m in really great shape these days.

Super toned.

Hot.

 

26 Words to Live By for My 26th Birthday (AKA NicRiah Day)

Today is the anniversary of Mariah Carey’s and my respective births, and why this isn’t a federal holiday yet is beyond me.

But I mean, I’m sure it will be someday, because Catholic people are always in the midst of lent during this time and so they’re likely very irritable for having given something up that they love (unless they’re that guy who’s all “I give up Sprite!” when really his drink of choice is vodka and/or crack – can you drink crack? – but I digress) and so they kind of need a day off from work to help deal with all their Sprite vodka crack withdrawal fits, and so I’m sure a moment will eventually come when the Pope is all, “I have an idea! March 27th is the perfect day for a holiday and it shall be called NicRiah Day” (because why wouldn’t the Catholic church spontaneously create a new holiday in honor of a large-breasted pop diva who loves to be almost-naked on stage and a wacky tall dude from Connecticut who loves to be fully-naked…in beds with other dudes…?), and then before you know it the U.S. government will catch on to the trend and be like, “Well if all these damn Catholics are calling out of work for this new holiday anyways, then why the hell not just make it a thing?” (I think this is how Christmas happened.)

So basically when the future is here and it’s March 27, 2025 and your Jewish coworker is all, “Thanks for the freebie, Catholics!” I hope you’ll turn to the guy and say (in a stern voice), “Don’t thank the Catholics; thank Mariah Carey and Nicolas DiDomizio.”

You’re welcome.

NicRiahDay

That’s me perched upon Mariah Carey’s left ass-cheek. (Side note: That’s me perched upon Mariah Carey’s left ass-cheek — I think this is the sentence I was born to write.)

In totally unrelated and slightly more spiritual news, here’s an unabashedly redundant, cliché, and (seemingly) trite list of 26 words I plan to embody in my approach to life during my 26th year:

  1. Presence
  2. Awareness
  3. Gratitude
  4. Simplicity
  5. Peace
  6. Truth
  7. Stillness
  8. Serenity
  9. Laughter
  10. Ease
  11. Consciousness
  12. Meaning
  13. Energy
  14. Laughter again
  15. Healing
  16. Forgiveness
  17. Laughter again
  18. Absurdity
  19. Transparency
  20. Growth
  21. Trust
  22. Faith
  23. Love
  24. Sprite
  25. Vodka
  26. Crack

KIDDING ABOUT THE CRACK. I HAVE NEVER DONE CRACK.

(I don’t know why I felt the need to scream that. My apologies.)

…Okay, so this post is supposed to be over, but it felt weird to finish with a parenthetical just now. Especially a parenthetical that basically says, “I’m sorry for joking about crack and then screaming at you with caps lock afterward about how I was joking about crack.” That crack joke, really, was just a horrible idea. And now it seems to be holding me hostage. In my own blog. ON MY BIRTHDAY. WTF. Is this what they were warning me about in D.A.R.E. when I was too busy singing Mariah Carey songs in my head to pay attention? Ooh! Mariah. Full circle. Okay. Happy birthday to me. Byeee.

 

It’s Those Damn GED Commercials That Are Making America Fat

Lately I’ve been trying cut back on my bagel intake because summer is approaching, and because carbs.

Also, lately I’ve been having existential crises where I feel like I’m not trying hard enough to succeed in life.

And so now I do this thing where I’ll get all depressed and start watching TV, and then I’ll see one of those commercials for “GED pep talks,” where C-list celebrities like the mom from That ’70s Show are literally paid to motivate people (via telephone hotline) to get off their asses and work towards a GED.

And so then I ask myself, “How the fuck do I feel inadequate when there are these lazy-ass fucks out there who need to be pep-talked into getting a GED?” but then I realize what an elitist snob dickhead I must be for even having a thought like that in the first place, because “Those people couldn’t just casually graduate from high school and go to college and grad school like you did, Nic. Their circumstances were likely adverse growing up, and sometimes they probably couldn’t even eat proper meals,” and so then I just say, “Fine, fuck it,” and figure that I might as well practice gratitude and take advantage of my privilege and just eat a fucking bagel already.

And so basically I’m failing at that whole “cutting back on carbs” thing and my chances of having a six-pack (or really, an any-pack) in time for beach season are nonexistent, and IT’S ALL THE MOM FROM THAT ’70S SHOW’S FAULT.

What a bitch.*

Bagel

*Kidding! She’s delightful.

How to Make ANYTHING Healthy (Yes, this Post Contains All the Secrets)

(Alternate Title: True Life: I Use Healthy Substitutions to Rationalize My Binge Eating – Part Two)

Every Friday at my company is “Wing Day!”

It’s kind of like Casual Friday, except instead of wearing non-professional attire, employees come to work dressed up as winged creatures – bees, pterodactyls, slutty angels – anything, really, so long as it can fly.

(Side note: Can we talk about how I just managed to spell “pterodactyl” right on my very first try? I swear. This kind of thing never happens, and frankly, I think it means I’m brilliant.)

Okay, so actually, I’m lying. (About the dressing-up-as-creatures thing; the getting-pterodactyl-right-on-the-first-try thing is completely true, and I’m standing by my brilliance.)

Wing Day is, in reality, just an excuse for everyone in the company to pig out on Buffalo wings for lunch, as they are the Friday special in the cafeteria.

And so here’s a conversation that occurred in the lunch line between my coworker JaJa (this pseudonym was her choice, by the way, and that tells you pretty much everything you need to know about how much of a delight she is) and myself the last time I indulged in this obesity-fueling ritual:

  • Nic: I can’t believe I’m doing this. I have a date tonight. A date. I’m now forever going to be The Guy Who Ate Wings for Lunch On the Day of a Date.
  • JaJa: Oh, stop. It’s fine.
  • Nic: Hold on! [Dramatically sprints to the salad bar. Returns ten seconds later, panting.]
  • JaJa: What did you just do?
  • Nic: I had to grab some fresh baby spinach.
  • JaJa: OMG.
  • Nic: Yes. I am having my chicken wings on a bed of spinach.

In related news, I sometimes add broccoli to my macaroni and cheese:

IMG_20140302_134134

I also like to add about a third of a packet of additional shredded cheddar, but that’s neither here nor there.

Did I mention that the macaroni is made with fifty percent whole grain? I mean, this meal is basically a power smoothie. That is, if power smoothies were all carb-y and cheese-laden, which, aren’t they?

STOP LOOKING AT ME THAT WAY.

Am I doing power smoothies wrong?

P.S. In case you missed Part One of this series, because apparently my reprehensible eating habits are steadfastly becoming an epic trilogy similar to The Godfather and/or Star Wars (and/or the nineties horror gem The Leprechaun… that was a trilogy, right?) you can find it here.

P.P.S. The folks over at Kashi have actually read Part One, and they told me to eat their cookies “in moderation.”

Screen shot 2014-03-05 at 10.18.57 PM

FOOLS.

Initially I was super offended by this tweet, but then that wink-face changed the game. So I’m willing to brush it off. Also, does the wink mean that they’re asking me out on a date? Because… yes. Kashi, I’ll date you. I mean, I’m already in a borderline-sexual relationship with your cookies (PUN!) anyway, so everything about this scenario just feels right. And yet so wrong.

My Gym Playlist Indicates That I Might Be Into Hardcore, Kinky Sex (Which, Am I?)

The other morning I was working out intensely at the gym while listening to Beyoncé’s limousine-blowjob song “Partition” at full-blast on my headphones and envisioning myself as the male lead in my own mental remix music video.

This fact is funny in and of itself, because I’m a lanky white guy from Connecticut with a generally awkward demeanor and a wardrobe from Kohl’s comprised mostly of unassuming sweaters.

gymmemeOther songs that really get my juices flowing (pun totally intended) at the gym include the vulgar whips-and-chains anthem, “S&M” by Rihanna; the strip club hymn, “Pour It Up” by Rihanna; that song about penises called “Rude Boy” by Rihanna; aaand… “Bridge Over Troubled Water” by Simon and Garfunkel.

(Just kidding about that last one. What I really meant to say was “My Neck, My Back” by Khia.)

(Side note: If you’re unfamiliar with “My Neck, My Back,” then I highly suggest you look it up on YouTube right now. Actually, just click this link. Especially if you’re at work. In fact, take your headphones off and let it play aloud. It’s totally not NSFW… it’s SFW, if that’s a thing. Crank up the volume, too – the song’s uplifting lyrical content will motivate you and your coworkers to be your best selves, and then you’ll all be really productive, and then your company’s stock will go up, like, a lot of points, and then your boss will notice that this positive chain reaction all originated from your desk, and then you’ll get a raise. And you won’t even have to give me a cut, because I’m selfless. You’re welcome.)

(Side note again: I’m sorry if I just got you fired. I SWEAR I DIDN’T MEAN TO. I was just being a practical joker. And it’s not my fault your boss is such a douche canoe.)

(Side note again: I know this was like, two paragraphs ago and the moment has passed, but can we talk about how I referred to “Pour It Up” as a strip club hymn up there? What the fuck was I thinking with that choice of words? And am I going to hell?)

Anyway, I’m just writing this post because I think it’s interesting how it took me ten years of being a gym-goer to finally become aware of the fact that I’m essentially a classic example of a “lady in the street but a freak in the bedroom.”

Except replace “lady” with “wholesome gay man.” And also I guess by “bedroom” what I really mean is the in-my-head-while-I-have-motivational-daydreams-at-the-gym-of-myself-and-Nick-Jonas-dry-humping-on-the-elegant-chaise-lounge-that-I’m-sure-he-has-in-the-corner-of-his-real-life-bedroom-bedroom. In the actual bedroom, if I’m being totally honest, I’m more likely to watch the OWN Network, read a book, maybe do a Bioré pore strip if I’m feeling frisky, and go to sleep by eleven. But still.

Okay, I think I’ve revealed enough about myself and my inner demons for one post.

Now, what do YOUR favorite workout songs say about you? Feel free to get vulgar in the comments.

 

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