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Suck It, MyFitnessPal

Dear MyFitnessPal,

Despite your claim to be my ‘pal’, I’m afraid I’m going to have to walk away from this friendship. You see, this evening it occurred to me, that you, in fact, suck.

Before you try to object, I’ve thought this through for approximately 12 minutes, and have come up with a list of very valid reasons why:

1. I just searched for the calorie content of 10 kalamata olives and 2 cups of romaine lettuce, and that is really, really dumb.

2. I love cupcakes. They make me happy. And I don’t feel I can share with you when I eat one. Or three. Whatever. Three times the cupcakes = three times the happiness, that’s what I think.

3. When you tell me I could be 112 pounds in 2 weeks if I were to just stay unhealthily under my recommended caloric intake every single day, it’s just a lie. We all know that’s not how it works, MyFitnessPal. And frankly, if you were a person, I’d kick you in the nuts for making people think this sort of behavior is ok.

4. Sometimes I go to bed with my stomach growling because you told me I was over my limit for the day. Then I have dreams that involve me being in a hot tub full of nacho cheese. That shit’s just weird. Although, I’d probably totally do it if a hot tub full of nacho cheese presented itself to me.

5. I hide my raging martini and margarita habit from you. There. I said it. And no, I don’t want to know how many calories are in my margarita. All I need to know is that it’s delicious and that I should have more of them. You should really be more encouraging about these things.

6. I exercise. A lot. And I enjoy doing so, not just because you tell me I can have an extra 600 calories today because I took a Spin class, but because it makes me feel good. For 38 years old, I think I’m doing pretty well for myself, with the exception of some thigh jiggle I’ve been trying to get rid of for 3 years and, let’s face it, probably ain’t goin’ anywhere. I’ve accepted it. I don’t need you to.

7. Last, but not least, is that I’m just tired. Tired of scrutinizing every calorie I put in my mouth, and tired of feeling guilty if I consume one more olive than I’m supposed to. You’re just no fun, MyFitnessPal. Have some pie, you uptight bastard.

I feel like there should be three more reasons here to put things at an even ten, but I’m trying to let go of my obsessive-compulsive behavior, so screw it.

By the way, I know damn well I burn more than 200 calories in an hour of lifting weights, you asshole.

Sincerely,

Paula In The Country Drinking Wine And Not About To Search For It’s Caloric Content

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Posted by on April 4, 2014 in Diet & Exercise, Humor, Life

 

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Run, Paula, Run!: Part II

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So, last week I signed up to run a 10 mile race.

Yes. On purpose.

I’m not quite sure what inspired me to do this, because if you’ve read some of my very early blog posts (Which I’m sure you haven’t, because Paula In The Country was not the worldwide sensation then that it is today. Shut up. Just go with it.), you’ll find that I did this exact same race last year, and didn’t find it particularly enjoyable then. I haven’t miraculously begun to love running since. Trust me on that. Granted, I’ve gotten slightly better at it, and am now at least able to run a 5K without having what I’m pretty sure is a very mild heart attack only curable by bagel, Big Gulp, or cupcake. But still. In sunny 45 – 70 degree weather, a nice 3 mile run can actually be quite refreshing. Once a month or so. With some walking breaks in the middle. Actually, it’d be ideal if I could get a little running monkey to follow behind me with snacks and stuff, too. Maybe some Triscuits. They’re good carbs, right? They have fiber. Would I be required to clean up after the monkey if it pooped on a nature trail, you think? It’s not like Triscuit monkey can wear a diaper or anything. That’d just look silly. Anyway… I got way off on a tangent there. That happens when I start talking about snacks and monkeys.

So, you may be asking yourselves, “Paula In The Country, why did you sign up to do such a stupid thing if you hate running?”. Well, smartass, I’ll tell you. Uhhhhh…

Shit, I can’t remember now.

Wait! I remember!

It’s because for a brief moment, upon completing that 10 miles, after I’ve gotten past my extremely angry “I’m never doing this bullshit ever again!” moment as I’m drooling on myself and trying not to pass out immediately following the race, there’s a different feeling… One of “Holy shit. I just ran 10 miles. 10. Fucking. Miles! I’m a Goddamn badass!”. Yeah, I know there are a lot of half-marathon and marathon runners out there who would scoff at my measly 10 miles, but for a girl like me, who graduated high school at well over 200 pounds, rarely exercised until my mid-20’s, and has never, EVER been athletic in the least, unless you count ping-pong or marathon White Castle slider-eating, 10 miles actually is a pretty badass thing. So that moment- That, “I’m proud of me.” moment makes all of the struggling through training, getting up at 4:30am to run 5 miles on a Wednesday before work, two months of sore calves, and smelly, sweaty feet, completely worth it. As lame as that sounds. Plus, there are Mimosas and chocolate malts afterwards. That helps, too. I refuse, however, to ever say, “You go, girl!” to myself. Not out loud, anyway. Maybe, like, in my car on the way home while listening to Kelly Clarkson or something. There may be three snaps in a Z form as well.

Until then, wish me luck in getting through the next couple months of running hell without the aid of a Triscuit-toting running monkey. It could get rough.

 
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Posted by on March 12, 2014 in Humor

 

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Run, Paula, Run!

It’s been a while since I’ve blogged. Life’s been busy lately, and frankly, I haven’t felt very inspired, nor felt I had anything very interesting to blog about. I still don’t, but I’m bored and sweaty, so I figured I’d jot a little something down. What the hell. If you’ve read my previous blogs, you’d know that I recently trained for and ran a 10 mile race, which I still firmly believe I was drugged into doing. Following, please find a brief and descriptive recap of my big race day:

12AM – 2AM: Holy shit. What did I do???

3AM: Should I start carbo loading now? I think I have to poop. I should probably try to sleep. I wonder if running without underwear would be a bad idea or a good idea?

4AM: Holy shit. What did I do???

5AM: Screw you, alarm. 5 more minutes, Ma! Wait… SHIT! I have to go run 10 miles! Wait… Is it raining?!?! Rain was not in the forecast! This will not be good for my prone-to-frizziness hair.

6AM: Is it safe for me to be driving loaded up on all this Gatorade?

7AM: FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK.

7:30AM (Race start): Someone please trample me so I don’t have to do this.

7:30AM – 7:40AM (Mile 1): UPHILL? Why are we starting UPHILL?? I’m gonna die. Hey, that old dude just passed me! Suck it up, Paula. Fuck up the old dude!

7:40AM – 8:25AM (Miles 2 – Mile 5): Huh. This isn’t so bad. I’m actually kind of relaxed. Good pace, P-Dawg (That’s what I call myself sometimes)! You can do this. You’re kicking ass! I wonder how my butt looks when I run?

8:25AM – 8:35AM (Mile 6): Woo-hoo! Downhill! I like this part! I can do this shit all day!

8:35AM – 8:45AM (Mile 7): What happened to the downhill? This is bullshit! Don’t tell me I’m looking good, you Gatorade-toting slut. Just hand it over and shut your hole.

8:50AM – 9:00AM (Mile 7-1/2 – 8-1/2): Ohhhhhhhhhhh crap. Downhill is now uphill. Gonna die. Someone kill me now. Please, God, let a semi come barrelling down the street to run me over. Shit! Cute cop up ahead! Smile, Paula, smile! Pretend you’re ok. Stop drooling! Stop drooling! Look sexy! Wait… Are my legs seizing up? This could be bad.

9:00AM – 9:15AM (Mile 8-1/2 – 10): Can I crawl? Would that be OK? Shit… another cute cop! Sexy, Paula, Sex…. Aw, fuck it. Sexy left the building a couple miles back.

9:15AM (Finish Line): Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. Water. Water. Water. Bagel. Water. Mimosa. Bloody Mary.

I don’t remember much after this, until my friend said something about free massages, and I had a stranger rub my lower half. Normally I’d be opposed to this kind of inappropriate touching from a stranger, but at that point, I didn’t much care what anyone did to me as long as they didn’t make me run any more.

In all seriousness, this was a huge accomplishment for me. I signed up on a whim, not really believing I’d be able to commit myself to the training, but I did, and for that, I’m extremely proud of myself. I’ve never been athletic in the least, so this was definitely a challenge. My goal was to finish the race in under 2 hours, and I kicked that goal’s ass by 16 minutes. And now, it turns out, I’m pretty fired up to beat my own ass next year. This is a far cry from the girl who, immediately after the race, told her friend, and I quote: “I am never doing this fucking bullshit ever again.”. Guess I’m just a glutton for punishment. Or I just enjoy having firm thighs and being post-race groped. One of those.

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Posted by on June 4, 2013 in Humor, Uncategorized

 

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