A food critic makes a St. Patrick's Day fitness resolution

Categories: Bar Belle

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Over the last few months, I went from the worst shape of my life to the best while continuing to eat like a food critic. Don't punch me in the face; instead, read how I did it in part nine of this series:

Try and guess what I ate for breakfast this morning.

If you said eggs, you're wrong. You're also wrong if you guessed steak or lamb or some sort of meat left over from the night before. In fact, if you guessed anything even related to protein -- which is what I should have eaten for breakfast, were I following the plan laid out by Jamie Atlas, Bonza Bodies owner and personal trainer extraordinaire -- you are not even close. Because for breakfast this morning, after seriously contemplating a big old wedge of cherry pie WITH ICE CREAM, I slathered a three-day-old poppyseed bagel with peanut butter and jelly (over a base of butter, for good measure) and ate the entire thing, errant drops of jelly on the plate included. Gluten, dairy, sugar, mediocre food for not-work... I think I broke every single cardinal rule of the plan. Shattered them, in fact.

I probably had this coming. Two weeks ago, I smugly typed that I could count on two hands how many times I've cheated on the high protein breakfast part of the Jamie Atlas plan since May, surviving wedding season and Thanksgiving in the process. Now I'm not even sure I could count on two hands how many times I've cheated on breakfast in the last week (so I've had a lot of double breakfasts. What?).

And breakfast was just the first thing to go, in a blaze of pancake- and French toast-coated glory. After that, I quickly took one of my brand-new gifted boots to the rest of the plan, engaging in a full-on gastronomic bender, the pinnacle of which had me eating row upon row of Fannie May chocolates after an ice cream sundae, a basket of fries and a bowl full of caramel corn.

It was glorious until I returned to my apartment from the marathon of family events and faced my skinny jeans, which stare at me judgmentally every time I open the drawer. My scale is also giving me the stink-eye, and I haven't even stepped on it yet. Because -- OBVIOUSLY -- you can't gain weight if you never weigh yourself.

Normally, this is about the point where I give up and trade the gym membership for the frequent scoop card at a nearby ice cream parlor. This year, though, I have Jamie blowing up my text-message inbox, and after completely ignoring his attempts to taunt me with the results I was destroying while cramming my face full of expensive cheese (and by "expensive cheese," I actually mean "cheap, horseradish-spiked pub cheese." I told you, big gifted boot to the rules), I'm ready to go crawling back. After all, New Year's resolution season is right around the corner. The days of homemade, cream-based egg nog are drawing quickly to a close.



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