Actually it doesn’t. Not quite. Not until my various obligations are fulfilled. The Royal Indian Mounted Food Control Police leaves tomorrow for the North Pole and the next day I will begin. I am prepping for it by eating everything I have in the house before then so as not to waste anything. Really, I will be throwing a lot of stuff away. Certain things that have been lounging about in my refrigerator for too long. Stuff that while good, is not so much on my list of must-eats, like the leftover chocolate cake. It’s fine, good actually, but I can so live without it. The sticky toffee pudding though, is softly calling my name and I may soon fall victim to it’s allures. There’s leftover beef that’s iffy. It’ll go. Chili, adios, old friend. Chicken sloppy joes…I need to eat that shit. It’s ambrosia. Rice and beans…meh. There are wedges of cheese that can stay (no carbs there).
This year will not be so much a Month of Pain, per se. I mean, I’m a-gonna do it but my pants are not pinching me in unpleasant ways but merely reminding me subtly that I could stand to drop a few elbows. (Elbows = lbs) It’s more of a Month of Discomfort. Although I imagine the first days will be difficult. After over a month of gluttonous eating by early evening my stomach, which pretty much controls my life anyway, will be bleating: “WTF?” I can already smell the decaf coffee brewing. Yawn.
Joining me this year for the MOP will be my friend Wendi. Can you weigh in real quick for me and send the numbers?