Ugh. I’m so gross. I so did not need that last piece of pizza. Or, you know. The one before it.

The fuck is wrong with me? You’re never going to reach your fitness goals this way. Six pack? Ha. You’re fuckin’ kidding yourself, man. Never. Gonna. Happen. The only six packs in your life are the ones leading to more pizza.

Why can’t your diet be totally nutritious and perfect like… all… Americans… ?

Er.

Common Demons in Freedom Land

Let’s face the facts: I’m not alone in my struggle with healthy eating. More than one-third of Americans are obese. Not like, “Oh man I could stand to drop a couple of pounds,” but like, full-on, “I can rest a beer can on my stomach while sitting on this couch” obese.

If that’s the life you want, cool. I ain’t judging you. I’m not Michelle Obama. It’s your life, buddy.

But for me, I’d just as soon look in the mirror and think, “Dayummmm” and not in the way where you’re like, “Dayyyuummmm… I hope nobody ever sees this in the light of day.”

We all want that, right? We’re bombarded with images of beautiful, flawless* people.

(*Photoshop helps. A lot.)

We want perfection. And when we can’t measure up to perfection (and who can), then we feel like we failed ourselves. And all we have left is our feelings of failure and regret. And the pizza. Oh, sweet sweet pizza will make me feel better.

A Temporary Solution to a Permanent Problem

You know what feels good right now? Ice cream.

Every delicious bite. For those brief few moments… happiness. Contentment. Sweet sweet chocolate enlightenment.

This is temporary. Soon will come the regret. But for right this moment, escape. Escape from feeling the nonstop pressure to be beautiful or handsome. Escape from your little tummy or your thunder thighs or your sizable junk in your trunk (which, let’s admit it, is awesome, and you should be proud of).

But it’s more than that, isn’t it? It’s not just a temporary escape. At least, not for me.

It’s something more nefarious. It’s a compulsion. A thoughtless, self-destructive act.

Addiction… ?

Addiction is one of those things you can’t really understand unless you’ve felt it. You can hear about it and read about it, but unless you’ve been in the grips of it, it’s just… impossible to explain.

The way your brain rationalizes away things. Sure, I’ll quit smoking later. Just one more cigarette right now. It’s fine. Now is a bad time. I’m sure later will be great.

(It won’t. But nicotine has this way of brainwashing you into coming up with reasons why it’s never really a good time to stop using it.)

Is food an addiction? I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like it.

“Quit, shovel all this shit into your body before you realize what you’re doing!”

I have no fucking idea what’s going on in that moment. I go to the gym all the time. I work hard. I want to feel attractive. But here I am undoing it all… for what? For a brief moment of taco-driven happiness?

(And is there any greater form of happiness than that achieved through glorious tacos?)

I just know that if you put a bag of Tostidos and some salsa or cheese dip in front of me, that shit won’t end until I’m in tears.

But I’m not the only one. This I know.

So… now what?

Psht, what am I, your therapist? If I knew that, I’d already be a too busy selling tickets to the gun show to write these words.

I do know one thing: we need to forgive ourselves a lot more. The number of people I know who I think are pretty goddamned good looking who regularly beat themselves up over the way they look is crazy. Girl/Guy, you got it going on.

It’s okay to fuck up now and again. I don’t want to live in a world where I can’t eat ice cream. And neither should you.

We don’t need to be perfect. We just need to do a little better. Or at least, I do. Not you, though.

You’re already awesome, cause you’re here, reading this blog, and if someone claims there’s something sexier than that, you come and find me and tell me, and I’ll punch them right in their stupid face.