Guess who has two thumbs, a conspiracy that all birds are CGI, and is going to write/brag about me going to the gym?

THIS ME.

After 10 days in Italy, drinking wine, eating pasta, having desserts every single day, I waddled back onto the plane feeling a little squished. Not just because I was going to be sitting in essentially a toddler’s high-chair for eight hours, but because I had been, as Dove commercials say, indulging.

So to get back to my optimal weight—which is “Not hating myself”—I decided to hit the gym, hard. And that bitch hit back—harder.

When I was just a doughy 18-year-old (hard to believe that was six months ago…just kidding, I’m fifty if I’m a day), I was double-fisting a burrito and a bowl of nachos in the dining hall when my friend mentioned going to the gym.

I looked up dully, eyes glazed over from ground “beef,” and asked what she was talking about. Apparently college tuition includes access to a “gym.” It does not, by the way, include guaranteed job security or a comprehensive academic counseling system, but that’s neither here nor there. No, literally, it’s not here or there.

Anywayanyway, my friend eventually brought me to the gym and introduced me to her workout plan, which was found online at a bodybuilding website. She showed me certain exercises, made me comfortable around the gym, and eventually I started going by myself. It was a 12-week plan, so I did the 12-weeks, then I did the 12-weeks over again. And again.

I’ve never been, like, ripped, but I’ve generally hovered between “acceptable” and “passably fit (if you squint)”. When I was wildly depressed and going to the gym every single day when I was 19, I was so fit. But when I went on medication, stabilized my mood and developed a healthy lifestyle attitude, I gained back some weight and took a more relaxed attitude towards working out.

I haven’t used a workout plan really since sophomore year, because I didn’t really need to to keep my motivation, but at the end of last semester, I was really slacking—mind, body and spirit. Sorry, spirits. So I’ve decided to get back on a workout plan (eight-weeks because I’m in the middle of convincing myself that I have ADD and ADme can’t commit to anything longer than eight weeks) to kick myself back into gear.

Gear is an acronym for “Getting everyone angry (at my) raging (body).” Not an exact acronym, I’ll admit.

I’m actually excited to get back into working out. I mean, I’ve been working out pretty consistently this entire holiday, but I’m excited to get back into a workout plan. There’s something about having a plan that’s thrilling.

The part that’s not thrilling is eating healthy. I have this cute little habit called “night eats.” It’s where it’s 1 a.m. and I make a grilled cheese and eat it while watching luxury hauls on YouTube. Luckily so far while I’ve been home, I’ve been doing pretty well. My sister is eating healthy too, and she cooks, so I’ve been able to resist standing in our pantry—shoving pretzels in my pockets to take upstairs for shame-eating. And also, once I get back to school, it shouldn’t be too hard. I buy my own groceries, and as long as I don’t cave and splurge on eight boxes of chocolate straws or multiple bags of mandarin chicken, I should be able to keep my healthy kick going.

If you see me eating a slice of pizza—hit me in the face. Do not accept any explanation I give you. Unless I look really happy, you guy—NO. I MUST BE STRONG. STRIKE ME ACROSS THE JAW.

Also I spent a good hour yesterday googling the least-horrifying alcoholic drinks. Luckily for me, I like gin and tonics. Could you imagine if I were a slut for margaritas? I WOULD BE DEAD ON THE FLOOR. DEAD. ON. THE FLOOR.