Thursday, May 29, 2014

When I look at the numbers so important to me, just a few weeks ago, they seem strange and distant now. These days, I have only three numbers in mind: 21.4, 7, and 5. The first? Poundage lost. The second? eHarmony. And the third, eHarmony again. Call it a one-track mind or call it focus, but like the health regimen or the grand eBay odyssey which preceded it, this is my thing now, and I’m committed.

You’d think going to Chipotle for, like, 50 fucking days in a row for lunch would inflict deep psychic scars, but you’d be wrong. I’m sure avoiding the place in the last few weeks has aided in the healing process, of course, though I don’t begrudge the time I spent there. It had to be done. Chipotle had a function to serve. Now, variety has returned to the lunchscape, with a mix of Mexican, Italian, American, and Thai each week. I’ve reached a caloric equilibrium, where three hours of tennis each week–coupled with 75 minutes of cardio and light breakfasts and dinners–grant me license to go apeshit during lunchtime and continue to lose weight.

This will only help, too, as I descend into the deeper circles of eHarmony. The “7” and the “5” stand for seven out, five in, and it remains a Venn diagram that does not cross. I’ve coldly, heartlessly blocked the five. Felt a pang of guilt, but did it anyway. I’ve changed, I tell you, in ways I’m not particularly proud of. Selfies, for instance, grim currency of the social media era–never had cause for ’em, but now I find myself experimenting with lighting and motherfuckin’ angles. I’ve altered survey answers regarding gun ownership, too, after realizing I’m kinda, y’know, in Texas. Disingenuous, yes–and absolutely necessary. There was a match who couldn’t spell “fascinate” correctly, but she’s hot, and I messaged her anyway. I’m so sorry, sanctity of the English language, really I am.