Today makes one week that I have faithfully worked out on George Clooney.
No, not the MAN, you Perv. The treadmill.
In case you didn't read this blog post last week, I have renamed my treadmill, George Clooney.
I don't know why. But, since I've stopped referring to it as that piece of shit in the basement, I feel more motivated. Sounds crazy. But, whatever works. Right?
Anyhow, this morning, after busting my hump all week on George Clooney (I just can't stop saying it), I went to Weight Watchers to weigh in. The result: my butt is down 3.2 pounds. Nice.
Now, I've said it before and I'll say it again. I am always happy with a weight loss.
But, I am also pissed at the injustice that is the male metabolic system.
You see, this morning, the Hubby jumped out of bed and yelled, "It's weigh in day!"
Yep. You guessed it. He's been eating what I'm eating (except more of it) and pretty much doing what I'm doing...EXCEPT FOR WORKING OUT ON GEORGE CLOONEY (or at all, for that matter).
And this morning, as he jumped on the scale in the bathroom (which, by the way, I refer to as that piece of shit in the bathroom), I heard him whooping it up and yelling, "Oh my God, Sal! I lost SIX pounds!"
Hubby: -6 pounds
Sally: -3 pounds
Gotta freakin love it.
Anyway, this situation has inspired me to work even harder to lose weight this week. I am seriously going to work my freakin ass off.
And next week, on weigh in day?
I AM going to lose MORE weight than the Hubby.
And when that happens, I'm not going to yell, "Oh my God, Paul! I lost XYZ pounds (like he did to me)!"
Instead, I'm going to yell, "DUDE! IN.YOUR.FACE!"
I guess you could say that I'm a tad bit competitive.