Everyone deals with stress differently.
Some people drink or turn to drugs. MJ gets very focused and intent, and usually cleans the whole house from top to bottom. I truly didn’t think I had a problem dealing with stress, until my wife told me in a not-so-subtle way that I’m eating us out of house and home.
At first I got defensive and told her she didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. But then I took a good look in the mirror. After that I stepped on the scale, which confirmed her theory. I’m a stress eater. I literally eat my worries away. Some people get hammered, others cry hysterically…apparently I think I can eat my problems away.
I cannot believe I never noticed it before but I see it now. I’m not even hungry most nights but once Will and MJ go to bed and I’m left to my own devices, I inevitably begin to think of Alex. And I get sad. Which then leads me to the fridge where I will house an entire gallon of ice cream in one sitting. Yeah, you read that right. A gallon. I also have no problem eating an entire box of pasta these days.
Needless to say my waistline hasn’t just suffered, it’s disappeared under my fat man gut. And I can’t let it go on like this.
So I spent all day yesterday fixing up my old bicycle, which has been outside in the rain and three harsh New England winters since last we saw one another. Unbelievably, it wasn’t in terrible shape. It needed some tinkering and a shitload of WD-40, but I can still ride it. I vowed that today (my day off) I would jump on the bike path and ride my stress away instead of shove it down my gullet.
I did 10 miles in a little over an hour. Not good, but considering I haven’t ridden in three years not terrible either. My legs are pretty sore, but that’s nowhere near the pain I feel in my ass. I don’t remember a bike seat hurting that much in the past, but right now my ass feels like it just spent the night in a Colorado hotel room with Kobe Bryant. My ass didn’t sit on the bike seat so much as absorb it. Seriously, I think a piece is still lodged in there.
Anyway, it was a beautiful Cape Cod day so I rode on the bike path in Falmouth. There were lots of people on the trail. Kids with parents, retirees keeping in shape and women. Lots of women. Lots of scantily clad, sweaty, toned women.
As I traveled toward Woods Hole I came upon one such specimen who had an ass that should’ve been bronzed and studied by the world’s top scientists for cloning purposes. It was phenomenal. Truly. I know I’m married to a beautiful woman but if MJ had been there, even she would’ve been salivating and agreeing with me.
Needless to say I took my time behind her and enjoyed the “scenery.” When I finally decided to jet by her I moved to the other side of the path and prepared to give the standard audible courtesy of “On your left.”
And that’s when Dr. Freud interjected.
“On your ass,” I said, cringing immediately after it slipped out of my mouth.
A smart man would’ve just kept going. A smart man would’ve kept his cool and pedaled hard, never looking back. A smart man would’ve also realized she was listening to her iPod and didn’t even hear the offending remark in the first place.
But I am not a smart man.
Instead I slowed down and veered in front of her, which startled her and put her on edge.
“I’m sorry I said ass, I didn’t mean ass,” I said, talking way too fast and nervously.
At this point she stops running and looks at me suspiciously as she takes off her headphones.
“What? What’s wrong?” she said with confusion.
“Oh nothing, I didn’t mean to spook you,” I stammered, getting flushed in the face. “I just didn’t want you to be offended when I passed by you and said ‘On your ass’ because I meant ‘On your left.’ But I said ass instead. So…I’m sorry.”
Smooth I am not.
Common sense finally kicked in and my fat ass pedaled away as fast as my chubby, out-of-shape legs would allow. And while I’m hopefully on my way to losing a few pounds, I confirmed there is absolutely no hope for my game with the ladies.