A few years ago, I found the perfect pair of butt jeans. You know what I mean? These jeans do more for my backside than hours at the gym ever could. If I was a smarter woman, I would have bought several pairs in a few sizes. Unfortunately, I didn't. I just have the one pair, and when I wear them I feel like a million bucks...or least a woman with a hot ass.
So what's the problem?
They don't fit! I've logged too many hours at my computer this year and put on a few pounds. Not a lot, but more than my butt jeans can handle. All's not lost. I'm determined to start the new year off right and wear these jeans on New Year's Day. I've been watching everything that goes into my mouth. Even keeping a food log so I can guilt myself into not cheating. But I did it anyway. This week I cheated.
Two days ago, I was at my computer upstairs when my son called up to me, "Mom, don't come down. I'm making you a surprise."
Next I hear a commotion in the kitchen and I keep my fingers crossed he's not experimenting with a condiment mixture or trying to see how gross he can make food look. He is a boy. This would not be odd.
Twenty minutes later, he comes upstairs with a towel folded over his arm. Classic R&B is playing in the background, and in his best French accent he asks if he can escort me to the finest restaurant on the planet for an early dinner. I take his arm (and a deep breath) and follow him to the dining room. He pulls out my chair and places a handwritten, beautifully misspelled, menu in front of me for the Iland Palas.
"Would you like to order a drink?" he asked.
I checked my drink options. There was one. "I'll have the Iland Punch," I said, just a little afraid of what I might be ordering.
He disappeared and came back with a plastic cup filled with what looked like orange juice, garnished with a straw and little paper umbrella. I took a sip, and breathed a sigh of relief. It was orange juice. Just plain orange juice.
"Do you need a few minutes, or would you like to place your order?" he asked.
I checked my menu again. There were two options for the entree: Iland Supreem and Grapes. I wanted to order the grapes. You have no idea how bad I wanted to order the nice, safe grapes, but I knew he hadn't been making all that noise in the kitchen to prepare grapes. So I took another deep breath.
"I'll have the Iland Supreem."
He disappeared again and came back so fast, it was obvious the plate had already been prepared. The Iland Supreem consisted of a hamburger bun, separated. One side was spread with butter. The other side was slathered in peanut butter. Thank goodness he hadn't decided to put the two sides together. Grapes were scattered around the plate, too. Now, I love buttered bread, and I don't mind peanut butter. But I'm a woman who's been living off lean protein and salads for a week and a half without cheating once. I know one bite of this is going to blow my diet to hell and back and leave me craving carbs like some Twinkie junkie.
I glance down at the dogs sitting next to my chair and pop a grape into my mouth. My son grins from ear to ear and stands there watching, waiting to see me eat what he's worked so hard on. I take a bite of the buttered bread, and he doesn't move. He just keeps grinning while I eat the whole thing.
I shed a little tear for my butt jeans and picked up the peanut buttered bun half. After one bite, my son runs to "check on something." Luckily our dogs eat fast. There wasn't a crumb left when my son returned and proudly announced he plans to own a restaurant when he grows up.
So I cheated, but this time it was worth it. And I don't feel guilty at all.