Somebody's got a case of the Mondays. Every day for the past month. That is me, and it's mainly because I have been studying for the Bar exam. My hubby sacrificed his old dining room table where I've set up shop with about 2,245 flashcards and books that have become nondescript in their monotony.
To start my Monday (did that word come from "monotony"?), I roll out of bed and pad downstairs, pour some coffee (Ghiradelli chocolate-flavored that he bought me), and trudge through studies until honey comes home.
But I write tonight because honey has done something that makes me completely with angry at him solely due to my own lack of self control. I speak, obviously, of pizza. He knows that I have no control when it comes to that discus of grease, fat, dairy and sugar. The fault is all mine though because I had no dinner prepared, so of course he brought home frozen pizza as dinner.
I had been so good all day. Had Special K for breakfast and then salad for lunch. Only ate a couple of chips with salsa when I was hungry, pulling the all-too-familiar "I have been healthy all day so this doesn't count" justification.
Two hours later, angry at myself for letting my butt stay on the couch while I ate three pieces of pizza, I got on my yoga mat and did about thirty minutes of vinyasas. I even pulled out my five pounders and swung them around, hoping that my shoulder muscles would feel the exhaustion in the morning to prove I'd burned some calories somewhere.
And then, just now, I saw a photo of someone's poorly grilled vegetables on Facebook. Mellow looking squash with onions probably greased from pan non-stick spray and salted into oblivion. My hubby has Master Chef on TV, and I notice how each contestant has added asparagus to the fish and sea-urchin dishes. And I thought, gross.
I was that kid who grew up eating spinach souffle, brussel sprouts and broccoli without complaint. But now I realize that, while I appreciate my mom's instillation of desiring green with every meal, I don't have to eat it if I don't want. I'm a grown woman, dammit, and I refuse to eat snap peas, soggy zucchini, and celery.
I look over at my husband and silently thank him for letting me eat those pizza slices and letting me calmly practice my yoga in the corner in that bright orange yoga shirt he hates. I smile at him, willing him to look back at me so that we can have a "moment" of loving understanding, but his eyes are glazed over. Probably from too much pizza.
