There is a deep sense of satisfaction in doing exactly what you said you would do. So many times we set goals for ourselves and then life runs us over like a pack of crazed weasels. Not today my friend, not today. The day started off iffy as I had to go to the courthouse with proof of insurance ( I swear it was in the glove box officer!), and I was in a lot of pain, but guess what? I didn't take a nap or anything. I got my Hello Fresh delivery and a bottle of wine. I did dishes. The heavens opened up and fat little cherubs sang in a sea of light (but maybe I was the only one who heard it - I did have some wine).
I have to say that I'm super pumped about Hello Fresh. As I said before, I actually like to cook but it takes SO much effort. This makes it so much easier. Take food out of box, follow directions, admire culinary prowess, eat food. Tonight was buttered up steak. I've cooked steak like three times in my life but this was good. I mean lick the plate good. I'm pretty sure there's a special place in heaven for the people who came up with this meals in a box thing.
Also, I hit my step goal for the second day running, and it's not even bed time. I was really short of reaching it before dinner, and I was in that blissfully full half comatose state after dinner so believe me when I say that I REALLY didn't want to do more steps. But, then I thought, what is the point of setting goals you don't at least try to reach? All that leads to is wallowing in self pity and a pint of Ben and Jerry's. So, I got up, turned on Pandora and stepped like a beautiful prancercising manatee (honestly, I love sea cows, Google them - you probably won't regret it).
Now I'm tired. Good tired. The kind of tired where you roll over, snuggle your puppy, and feel like all is right with the world. Today I am content.

So there is hangry, when you get so hungry that your angry and a possible rampage ensues. What then is the word for being so hungry you are no longer angry, but shaky and tired, and despite the horrible howling in your belly, you just want to lay down and hope it will go away? My body wants real food. You know. Fruits and vegetables and maybe a hunk of seared meat. What my body has had today is a Cliff bar, four chocolate covered twizzlers, and two mighty fistfulls of chocolate covered pretzels.
I know how to cook. Most of the time I enjoy cooking, but for the last couple of years our diets have consisted of the four delivery food groups: Pizza Hut, Jimmy John's, Taco Shop, and China Garden. I do this weird thing when I eat really badly. I swell up like an infected puffer fish. I know, everybody bloats some after eating, but this is different - trust me. My friend and I actually tested this while we were hosting a lock in back when I taught high school. We measured my waist before and 30 minutes after getting bad fooded up. I gained three inches. In my defense, my body has been trying to kill me for quite some time - I was just stabbing back. Terrible defense, I know.
My husband was telling me about an article he read that said we don't actually want a lot of the crappy food we eat. Our brain just thinks back to the last few things we ate and develops a sort of muscle memory. If all you eat is junk, all your brain remembers is junk. It's really not as easy as you might think to break the cycle especially when pain is involved. Most of the time I'm just to tired to care.
I did, however, renew our membership to Hello Fresh. They have real food, and my husband has been going to war on the kitchen with me so I actually have clean pots to cook with. The first box is supposed to arrive tomorrow. That's a start.
And hey, Fitbit and I have accumulated 6162 steps - only 35,838 more to go. Guess I had better walk to the fridge.

My Facebook feed is full of cute babies and inspirational videos. I'm not complaining. There are, however, only so many times that person can be punched in the "feels" before they begin to question what the hell they are doing with their life. 
I have decided (in the words of John Parr) that my time is now. That's right, I'm grabbing the proverbial bull by the horns and that beast is going to be my delicious double patty hamburger with pickles. 
I've had a miserable last couple of months. I hate being feeble. You see, I was born with a birth defect of my right kidney which caused it to be all "You can take this job and shove it." I had two corrective surgeries - one at age three months the other at age two (both of which left me split open like a Thanksgiving turkey from below the breast plate to groin). Neither surgery fixed the problem.
Fast forward to Memorial Day 2002 when the aforementioned kidney gave up the ghost and quit. It actually died (inconsiderate prat didn't even wait for my 21st birthday). This time they cut me down the side and made a big 'ole hole that took 21 staples to close.
Now, in between those two incidents, I had another surgery which should have been a minor operation. See my reproductive organs have also been cited for drunk and disorderly, and the doctors decided that in lieu of allowing them to burn the house down, they were going in to have a look-see and find out what was what.
They were supposed to make a wee incision above my belly button and insert a scope. In and out without incident. Ha. After cutting a four inch hole THROUGH my belly button and down a ways, they gave up and stapled me back together. It seems that all my internal organs had been fused together with scar tissue. They couldn't find my uterus. You read that right. Those drunk and disorderly bastards built an impenetrable fort and then passed out.  
Ok. Fine. I'll just live with it? Like I'm living with the fibromyalgia? Anyway, for those of you who also have a co-dependency on ibuprofen, I'll take this moment to inform you that taking 400-800 mg every four hours on a fairly regular basis is bad ju-ju. Especially if you only have one kidney.
Time marches on. January of 2017, my gallbladder decided that it too was quitting without notice. Actually, I think it probably screamed and gurgled a whole lot for a long, long time, but I couldn't hear it over the racket of the rest on my insides burning down. Now days, this voodo magic they call "laser surgery" lets them take out an organ with a few little holes and your on your way a couple of hours later. Would any of you reading be surprised to hear that's not exactly how it went down for me? 
They ended up cutting six little holes, five around my belly button like a clock, and one right through my belly button (if your counting, that's four times the old button has been sliced and diced. Now there is no belly button, there is only Zuul). Anywho, they had to cut all those holes in order to get through that impenetrable fort. My doctor did an amazing job, but even so, it took an hour just to cut through all the adhesions, and in a final act of spite, my insides wouldn't let go of my liver and it tore a little bit for fun. Don't worry. I lived.
Ok, I've only got one more. I promise. 
Just last month, I had decided enough was enough. Time for those no good, rabble rousing reproductive organs to get off my lawn! Not any easy decision by far, but the best one given the circumstances. So, I go to the hospital, take my Valium, and go sleepy bye. I kind of wish I could have just stayed asleep for a while. Turns out, my flippin uterus resisted eviction. After a seven inch incision and 15 staples, they abandoned ship. Oh my god, how? Why? All of my bowels are bound up like a big death star. My uterus has it's own death star. What the hell?
So now you're caught up.
I've been down, depressed, tired, angry, hungry. Just kind of going through all of the emotions alphabetically a few times a day. But now I'm done. I'm going to do something. And it may not seem like much to you, but that bull burger is mine and I'm starting with my new pal Fitbit Alta HR. We're going to do 42,000 steps by bedtime Saturday. Look out world, I'm coming for ya and my insides are on fire!