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I recently read that mirrors add ten pounds. Well, I must have a house full of mirrors because according to my mirrors, I'm the "before" picture in a weight loss commercial. I'm trying to embrace my body, you know? Love yourself, they say. So, I'm standing in front of the mirror, giving myself a pep talk. "You're beautiful, confident, and—oh, is that a double chin? When did that happen?"
I've also realized that mirrors have this sneaky way of making you believe you're taller than you are. You walk by a full-length mirror, and you're like, "Wow, I'm so tall and elegant!" Then you see a photo of yourself with friends, and it's like, "Wait, am I hanging out with the Lollipop Guild?"
And then there's the dreaded dressing room mirror. Why are they always lit like crime scenes? I'm trying on clothes, and suddenly I feel like I'm under FBI investigation. "Ma'am, step away from the skinny jeans. They're not a good fit for you.
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Late-night snacking has become a sport in my house. I'm talking about the "Opening the Fridge and Staring into It Olympics." It's a real event. I'm an elite athlete in that category. I can stand there for minutes, contemplating my options, as if the contents of the fridge will change magically. And don't even get me started on those infomercials that promise abs in 30 days. I'm over here thinking, "I can't even stick to a diet for 30 minutes, and you want me to do crunches for 30 days?!"
Late-night snacking has its own set of challenges. Ever try to quietly open a bag of chips at 2 a.m.? It's like diffusing a bomb. I'm over here with ninja skills, trying not to wake up the entire house. But let's be real, the real challenge is not eating the entire bag and blaming it on a mysterious snack bandit.
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So, I decided to be healthy and ordered a salad at a restaurant the other day. You know the type – the ones that come in a bowl the size of a swimming pool. I'm sitting there, looking at the salad, thinking, "This is just a bunch of leaves pretending to be food." And then there's the dressing. They bring it on the side, like it's a guilty secret. "Would you like the dressing on the side?" Of course, I want it on the side! I want to see what I'm missing. I want to dip my toe in the pool of flavor before committing.
But let's talk about croutons. Whoever invented those crunchy cubes of joy deserves a Nobel Prize. They're the rebels in the salad, adding that much-needed excitement. I feel like a salad without croutons is like a movie without a plot twist – just bland and disappointing.
In conclusion, I'll stick to my salads, but only if they come with a side of optimism and a sprinkle of crouton magic.
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You know, I've been trying to get in shape lately, but it's like my body has a subscription to "Nope, not today" magazine. I step on the scale, and it's like, "Buddy, we talked about this last week!" I thought about getting a new scale, you know, maybe one that's a bit more supportive. Like, "Hey, you're doing great! Have a cupcake!" But no, my scale is more like a brutally honest friend. It doesn't sugarcoat anything. Well, actually, it does. In chocolate.
And don't get me started on food labels. They're like cryptic messages. "Serving size: 10 chips." Who eats just 10 chips? I look at that bag like it's a challenge. It's not a snack; it's a puzzle. If you can stop at 10, you deserve a medal, not a snack.
So, yeah, I'm on a diet. It's called the "See Food" diet. I see food, and I eat it. The only problem is, my scale doesn't appreciate my commitment to this diet.
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