One thing I didn't mention about camp is that, surprisingly, I gained about ten pounds while I was there (or so I'm guessing it was ten pounds, I don't believe in scales). Because there were 100 people fighting for the food, my survival instincts would kick in at meal time. Fearful that I'd be hungry by the next meal (because I always was) or that some eleven-year-old would take the last piece of French toast, I binged, or hoarded, as it were. It's fair to say that I ate as much at every meal as I generally do in a day in Brooklyn.
Upon returning to the city and trying to regain some semblance of Greenpoint chic (skinny jeans, etc.), I realized that my clothes no longer fit. And by no longer fit, I mean that every pair of pants I have to suck in to zip up gives me a giant muffin top when I breathe out. If you don't know what a a muffin top is, think about it. Still don't know? Picture me in a pair of jeans that's too tight at the waist and think about it again.
Add to this the fact that I am now making at least eight casseroles a week.
So I did what any somewhat shallow 25-year-old would do and began a running program. It's not just any running program. In fact, I call it "Running for Fat People," and it might as well be called that because it's really called "From Couch to 5K." It's simple. Really simple. This is not to say that I didn't feel like I was going to die when I was done yesterday, because I did, a little. But in the spirit of wanting to burn the fat as quickly as possible, yesterday I decided that I would run again today, even though "Running for Fat People" advised me not to. I believed for the past 24 hours that I would be running right now. And then I woke up a while ago to find that my hips hurt. My hips! Of all the places on my body that shouldn't hurt me until I'm 65, my fucking hips hurt.