Yesterday I ate a chili dog.
It took me nine hours. Yep, that's a third of a dog every three hours.
Today has been easier, just as I suspected it would be. I still have this vague feeling of "I am going to drop dead from starvation during the next three-hour interval!" but at least my stomach isn't growling in an embarrasingly loud way like it was yesterday.
To celebrate my new diet, and to give me something to do between three-hour intervals, I bought a Shake Weight. Yes, the exercise equipment with the mildly obscene TV commercials. I took it out of the box and looked for the "on" switch. Turns out, there's no "on" switch. Nor is there a battery. The shaking motion comes all from the shaker- i.e., me. And I shake, all right. My arms, my shoulders, my boobs... yep. There's a whole lotta shaking going on when I'm using the Shake Weight. And yes, you really do look like you're starring in "Dee Dee Does Dallas part 69" while shaking.
My husband says he's going to reap all the benefits of my performing these rather obscene exercises. I'm just hoping all this obsceneness will help me with the flaps under my arms. If it doesn't, I guess I will just have to come to terms with the flaps. Maybe I will name them and truly become their friends.
But in the meantime, I shake, shake, shake.
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