Punchy was craving her favorite heart-attack-inducing food, the fried twinkie. There were two restaurants in the L.A. area that served fried twinkies: Mel's Diner, and a seedy but artsy joint called Lulu's. Punchy punched her roommate in the shoulder, begging, "Can we please go get fried twinkies?" Punchy's roommate, Katie, rubbing her bruised shoulder, told Punchy firmly, "No."
Punchy announced that she was dieting three days earlier. Katie was trying to act as her conscience in this and many other food-related scenarios. She was Punchy's friend, after all.
Katie was very healthy looking. She ate whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted, although she generally tried to avoid foods such as fried Snickers bars, soda, ice cream, and pancakes. She didn't think too much about it. Food was in the background for Katie, like the trees and sky. Her brain distinguished hunger from appetite, she was perfect, etc.
Monday, 4:00 pm. It was actually time for Punchy's weekly jog. She thought she'd start with the goal of exercising for 25 minutes, once a week, and then eventually become Super Punchy, sprinting long distances every morning, no water required.
Katie also reminded her, "Yo Punch, isn't it time for your weekly jog?" It helped Punchy to have a babysitter like Katie around. Punchy was less inclined to bring crates of snickerdoodle cookies home after work, and more inclined to get off her ass and exercise, do some dishes, and maybe even some laundry.
Punchy sighed. "You're right." She slowly changed into her sport's bra and yoga pants, and walked out the door, water bottle in hand.
When Punchy gazed up at the sky, she noticed the sun looking bigger and brighter than usual. As she began to jog, her fat jiggled around uncomfortably. She had to find the right beat, a perfect rhythm of fat jiggles that remained constant with each step she took. Once she had found her fat jiggle groove, Punchy jogged on forward, feeling instantly accomplished after passing two houses and three apartment complexes.
Five, ten minutes passed until Punchy had reached what she called The Final Fifteen. Those first ten minutes were a breeze in comparison to the dreaded last quarter. Hyperventilation had already set in, but what was worse was that Punchy was beginning to feel hungry again--not for a fried twinkie, but this time for a full-stack of pancakes, dressed in runny maple syrup, melted butter, and a few fresh strawberries on top. And maybe just a baby squirt of whipped cream?
If it weren't for her hyperventilation, gravity's occasional pull on her excess body fat, the uphill course ahead of her, and her newly added (and ever-growing) pancake craving, Punchy may have had a successful afternoon run.
And then there was that sun again.