Crossdres-...er, posting

I've been remiss in posts and cross-posts. Here's the latest over at The Platinum Body.

Day 11: 'ware the Boba

Today was Thursday, a day to be spent recuperating from the Wednesday workout.

I'd like to claim, with a jaunty air and a careless toss of my sun-dappled locks, that I needed to respite from LL's pathetic entry-level workout...but such is not the case. While the workout certainly isn't the most difficult, the fact is, I haven't done squats (an essential part of the routine) since my sophomore year of high school (when I had a catastrophic knee injury...that story will have to come later).

Thus, doing squats now has created the strange sensation that I'm on the receiving end of a Fight Club fat raid that has mistaken my plump rear for liposuction product (instead of mere potential). Okay, that perverse image is entirely inappropriate. No, it feels just like I've always imagined it would feel if someone performed acupuncture (you know, sticking needles through your body) on me...but just in my derriere.

So, relative respite I took, if waking at four in the AM can be called such (I had to drop folks off at the airport). So, three in the PM found me exhausted, stumbling through a parking lot in Claremont, trying to come up with meal number four (curse you, Cool J and your Sun King-sized stomach). The closest place happened to be Captain Boba World Bobarama...or something equally offensive to the concept of ascribing names to things. Sloth's cries overwhelmed me and I stumbled inside, pausing at the door just long enough to note the "B" rating. Perfect: dirty enough to tip off health inspectors, not dirty enough to make it good.

Like so much of the strange and wonderful world of the Inland Empire (and the cities that border on that region), Boba World was a horrifying place. The vaguely humid air combined fake flora littering the counter and food space gave the impression that the place was suffering some kind of invasion of noxious plasticene weeds. My stomach growled; from hunger, fear or revulsion, I could not say.

Impressively, in spite of all evidence to the contrary, I placed an order. The croissant sandwich sounded harmless enough, though I said "just a tiny bit of mayo" to be safe. How could one go wrong with fresh mozzarella, lettuce, tomato and roast beef. I was all but the poster boy for healthy eating.

Waiting for my food, a large winged insect attempted to join me at the bar. Somehow, in the few moments it took to end this misguided Diptera's life, everything changed. A warm miasma was rising from the toaster, no doubt moisturizing the cheese and meat heating inside; the refrigerator belched loudly and expelled large quantites of water of a tube that fell into a conveniently placed drain in the center of the work area; and the young woman behind the counter was trying to expel what remained of what had once been a full deli tube of mayo onto the now-soggy croissant.

Two minutes later, I sank my teeth into the sandwich as I left the shop. It was good, but in the way that a bacon dog outside the Coliseum is good. Bacon dogs are good because you've been imbibing the brewer's finest since shortly after eight that morning and it is now nine that evening and the game has finally ended and sobriety is threatening to return in perfect completeness, at which point you'll realize that you are still completely covered from head to toe in cardinal paint (including the ear canal) and may at any point run into your disapproving romantic counterpart who is in no mood to wait for you to deconstruct in a hose for an hour.

Okay, so maybe it wasn't good like that. In fact, the only parallel was the obscene amount of mayonnaise. Perhaps it was the pleasure that one takes from drowning out the cries of one's arteries: "For the love of all that is holy, purge yourself of this plague before we are stopped completely!" Something of the maniacal dictator rests in all of us.

And the relevance of this to the Platinum Body? LL wasn't kidding: it's not easy to eat well and it sure as hell requires discipline. My best shot at the moment apparently isn't enough. Mr. Smith, I apologize. I'll redouble my efforts (hmm, didn't one of Vader's commanders say that shortly before having his throat crushed by the Force?)...I'll retriple my efforts. Starting riiiiiiiiiiiiiight....now.