Good Morning, Gorgeous.

Huh.

This is new.

I’ve been single for a loooooooong time (approximately 5 years) and way back then, nobody sent good morning text messages.

Now it’s a thing… and it starts early.

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It’s already too much work, if I’m going to be honest. I haven’t had a date with James yet and Ike is solid gold eye candy and not much else. Pretty boys are fun to look at, but that’s usually as far as it goes. He’s 6’4″ and probably 300 lbs. CUTE as hell, but equally as wholesome. We had lunch last weekend and he licked his lips when I met him. Don’t get me wrong… I’m a full fledged heathen in the right circumstances, but first impressions are everything and I quit dating fuckboys in my thirties.

Don’t date a real woman until you’re a grown man. We know instantly. Men are like ice cream, after a while, you recognize a few flavors.

  • That one tastes like hurt feelings. He’s instantly sexual with you, asks you to come to him AND will only make you feel bad about yourself in the long run. He’ll benefit from this, not you. I swear to God if I ever taste this one again, I’m joining a convent. Sorry Ike. 
  • This one tastes like I’m going to have to change my phone number and hang up some NO TRESPASSING signs. James, pump your breaks dude. I’ve had to silence him on my phone after he wished me a good morning at 5:30 on Saturday morning. Those are emergency ONLY hours, right? He sent me 37 text messages yesterday. I sent him 4. I was home by 5 but told him I was working late so that he’d stop blowing up my phone. His last text was at 11 at night, asking how my day was. Gah.
  • Mmmm… that one tastes like East Coast disinterest. I sure don’t mind being called “Doll” and his minimal text messages are enough to get me to agree to a date. Scott’s educated, and successfully self-employed with a bunch of cool toys. He wears a tie every day, which still does it for me. He’s also a narcissistic asshole, which sadly… also does it for me. I’m going to spare myself the eventual headache and not date Scott.

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  • Eeek…… This one tastes like a criminal. Trayvonne is lovely to look at, but can’t leave the state. Hard pass, pretty boy. I already learned that lesson. Nobody is so attractive that you should join them in their legal mire. Good relationships begin with healthy, available people. No habla ankle monitor. 

Dating is rough, and absolutely no fun at all when your heart isn’t in it. I’m past comparing my dates to the man I wish were sitting across from me, but there’s a certain sadness that’s sunk in as a result.

I hate to ghost them all, but that’s looking like what’s going to happen. Sorry, not sorry. There are different rules for Tinder boys and I’m more annoyed by their presence than pacified by it.

I don’t want a babysitter, I want Incredicock. I don’t want a good morning text message, I want a man across the dinner table from me and in my sheets, otherwise what’s the point? I’m over it.

No more swiping left or right. No more texting. Either he’s sitting at the table or he’s not. My patience for these virtual boyfriends has run out.

Because I have a favorite flavor. I want the one that tastes sweet, makes me laugh and leaves me wanting more. The one who’s physically, mentally and emotionally available.

…and won’t text me at 5 in the damn morning on Saturday. 

Insanity

Finally! Truth in advertising.

This stupid broken heart of mine is going to land me in a wheelchair.

I’ve been running from frustration for as many miles as I can fit in, morning and night. It’s been my saving grace and all that has silenced the outrageous sex dreams I keep having about the man at the center of my sadness.

But it’s just not working anymore, and I needed to start focusing on my terrified & hidden abs. I have a tummy tuck planned this fall and I’d like to be in the best shape of my life when I go back under my plastic surgeon’s knife.

To be blunt: I’m tearing down the factory to build a playground.

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Beachbody on Demand is going to help me fine tune my playground, but dear GOD is it a treacherous path.

I finished the dishes and changed into my yoga pants and half dozen sports bras. If it’s one thing that having huge boobs changes, it’s exercise.

I’ve been following Paulina, an amazing woman on Instagram; as she has transformed with these same workouts. I covet her swimsuit model bod, enough that I’ve been working on mine for the past few months by running again. It’s been in the back of my mind for a while that it was time to take it to this scary level.

Then my beloved Miss Crunchy started doing them too, and her workouts started greeting me every morning as I sat writing and having my third cup of jet-fuel-strength coffee. This same lady is loving her ex through being diagnosed with multiple myeloma cancer and facing a very different future than she imagined. She’s doing it by kicking ass and taking names, while shining like a diamond and singing like a bird. It’s one sort of miracle to handle life when it’s most difficult, but a whole other kind of spectacular example when you make it look good, too.

So why not? I pulled my hair up and tied my shoelaces a little tighter. Browsing through my options for the Beachbody on Demand I’d just gotten access to.

My closest friends know that I always prefer black to white. In my opinion, when it comes to men, clothes and chocolate, the darker the better. Unfortunately, I live in the land of white boys, so imagine my delight when a fine black man popped up on the screen full of options.

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I sure will listen to anything he says. Click. How bad could “Insanity” be? I kind of thrive on it. Shaun T is LOVELY to look at. I’m pleased with my purchase. This fine man is going to lead me to the promised land.

20-30 devastating minutes at a time. Dear. Fucking. GOD.

Five minutes in, I realized that I’d jumped in the deep end of the pool when I probably should have waded in gently. Pretty sure I can feel my liver crying and I’m realizing that alcohol is out if this is the sort of body slamming torture I’ve just embarked on.

12 minutes in, I am literally melting. I know all of my body is sweating, but it actually feels like my face may slide off. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’m sort of hoping it does so that I can take a break to find it.

You don’t really know yourself until you’ve endured some plank jumping jacks. Jesus Almighty, what have I gotten myself into??

But…at a certain point…the suffering dulls and the burn kicks in. I realize that it’s going to be fucking intense and will only work if I’m as determined to change the shape of my body, as I am to be more careful about where I put my heart. I can’t help missing him but I sure as hell can use those awful feelings to my advantage with Shaun.

Two soul-stomping workouts a day for 60 days ought to change the landscape and how I feel. ♥

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