Longtime readers will recall that I have been making a half-hearted effort to track meals at Lance Armstrong’s fitness joint. Until.
Some days you just need a milkshake. Yesterday was one of those days. I was driving by the International House of Milkshakes. I had enough time before work. I had enough calories in the bank. What the hell.
It’s a national chain. I will not reveal the name, but they deal in burgers and would seem to be some sort of royalty. Though no nude photos of them were on display. That is a good thing.
All was well. A great milkshake. A decent night at work. A painless drive home. Then I tried to enter my shake with my Fitness Buddy. Which totally freaked out.
“You could have had orange juice,” it pointed out, adding a lovely photo of said beverage and a breakdown of its calories vs. mine. “I could have had the LARGE shake and onion rings,” I pointed out. “Juice would be sweet AND healthy,” it reminded me. “I didn’t want healthy. I wanted chocolate. And ice cream. And shakiness,” I grumbled. “Your belly jiggles when you type,” it pointed out. “My namesake didn’t get nailed for bribing the UCI,” I retorted. “You suck.” “No, you suck.” And then I logged out.
So tonight I’m eating Little Debbie Zebra Cakes. I have no idea what they are, other than Mo must have bought them and left them out. I’m sure if I logged them tonight, my Fitness Buddy would point out that I could have had grapes instead.
But from now on, I promise to suck my gut in when I type …