There they are, sweating it out on the treadmill as Jillian shouts obscenities at them, and I'm sitting there with my butt on the couch, dipping into my dish o' fat.
I did feel guilty. Not guilty enough to stop spooning it in, mind you, but I did have a pang or two.
I imagine what I'd look like on that regimen. Nothing to do but work out four hours a day, with a great trainer who is clearly really good at what she does (and Bob looks awesome, too). And the nutrition. That's my big issue (clearly).
The working out part isn't where I struggle.
Hello. My name is Cheryl. And I'm a sugar addict.
I. Love. It.
I can't go through a day without something sweet. And since I don't really like fruit (it has to be just so or I won't eat it, like no bruise on the banana, the orange has to be sweet and juicy, the grapes firm, etc) this means I'm eating the processed white stuff, otherwise known as Satan's Spell.
I'm under it. All the way.
What I need is a Jillian to stand in my kitchen and when I'm reaching into the back of the cupboard for those tootsie rolls, she could scream "WHAT are you DOING? COME ON! DROP AND GIVE ME TWENTY!"
Or something like that. I'm pretty sure she could kick my ass in about 9 seconds, so I'd have to listen.
Because sometimes I feel like, if I don't watch it, you're going to see my butt not on the couch, but on TV. As a contestant.