Mine isn’t going well.
When you’re banned from riding, and can’t exercise, how do you cope? (Read: not stuff yourself with pastry.)
I’ve cleaned what I can. It’s all sparkly.
I’ve organized drawers.
I tackled the geriatric crowd at our barn, cleaning up every mare and gelding over 30. (I can’t risk the non-geriatric horses yanking on me)
I’m in my fat jeans.
My tack is clean.
The fat jeans are tight.
I started organizing my “horse stuff” bins.
I’ve made to-do lists from Hades that should take me into 2020 to even start.
Most frightening? I went on a fingerprint hunt and removed all traces of human existence from our home. Who does that?
I feel fat.
This makes me want to eat. I need an electrician: something is wrong with my wiring. Feeling fat should not equal “Okay! I know! Let’s eat!”
I bought fat-free milk (normal) and felt so virtuous (for doing something, um, normal) that I bought a cookie the size of a dinner plate and ate it as a reward for being virtuous.
I need help.
So I’m turning to my fellow riders who’ve been smashed, broken, bruised, hurled and wrenched. HELP! How do you talk yourself into the carrot sticks and out of the pastry section?
After the poll, I hope you all share your rehab secrets with me, because I’m seriously on the way to gaining 20 lbs.
I hung a swimsuit on the fridge. This is fine if no one else ever uses the fridge. It’s horrifying to teenagers who bring over friends, and are confronted with a granny suit while looking for snacks.
With cracked or broken ribs, walking hurts. I’m doing it anyway (we’re horse people, we do stuff anyway, right?), and contemplating what aerobic thing I could possibly do at the gym and not come out worse than when I went in.
Any and all suggestions welcome, (short of suicide or wiring my mouth shut).
If any of your ideas work for me: Tiny will personally send you a thank you card.
He eyed me today. Before backing out of reach, and tucking the bag of carrots behind him.