I've Eaten My Last Choclate Chip Cookie Today

...because I'm tired of looking at these body-perfect men and feeling like a troll. I'm on my way to the body I want to have, but I keep sabotaging myself with sweets. I'd gotten up to 212 lbs. when I worked at Starbucks, due to the sweets I'd scarfed, and I got down to 185 last year by cutting them all out.

Time to do it again. And this time keep it off. (I've only gotten back up to 190, but still---)

Today I went out to Central Park for a jog after yesterday's debauchery. Yes, yesterday I ate like a condemned man. I dunno what was pushing me, but I had ColdStone ice cream in the morning and Mrs. Fields cookies last night. I had gone out twice yesterday into my city. I had finally got the courage to climb the stairs to the karaoke place at St. Mark's only to find that someone was being lazy and hadn't opened the joint up on time. So I had pizza instead. Then ice cream.

Last night on the way back from Mrs Fields (yes, when I binge, I actually take the train down to 42nd St Port Authority and get the cookies. It's the only one on Manhattan that is open after 10:00 on a Saturday night.) And then I went to Dallas BBQ up a little ways on 42nd, and got some pulled pork. I was out of my head with binge. The New Employee is driving me to eat, it must be.

Interestingly enough, I was wearing my new jeans, a GAP sweater v-neck, no undershirt, and a suede suit jacket. I have finally gotten a 'professional' haircut last week as well. So I'm looking a'ight last night, right? Then while waiting for my pork, a trio of nighthopping girls stood before me. One girl was rail-thin, but wearing a black corset. Her skin was the color of burnished wood. While they discussed whether they would eat at the restaurant, or go locate the Friday's nearby, the rail-thin girl looks at me. Then she smiled a little bit. And I smiled back. I mean, I smiled as though I was working at the B&N cafe. I smiled with confidence. She was checking me out. And I was checking her out too. Then they left. And my pork came. And that was that.

But can I tell you that it felt good to hold my own, as a man, in today's meat market?

Anyway, on the way back, with BBQ on my lap, the A trains went crazy on me. At 155th St, the first one decided, via train operator, that 168th would be its' last stop. But my last stop was 207th! It was 1:00 AM at this point. So it dumped us onto the platform at 168th with the promise that another A train was going to come and take us to 207th shortly.

For 1 AM, there sure were a lot of abandoned people on that platform. I had been eyeing a couple who had gotten onboard way back at 42nd street, where I had. The woman was in her twenties and she had an ample, Botticelli figure. A little less than that. Her dude was a thinnish guy--nothing special to rouse the homo in me. She had a nice cleavage hiding away between the wide lapels of a knit sweater. Her blond streaked hair was tucked up in a bun and her lavish eyes were hidden behind a schoolmarm's glasses. Then just like a schoolmarm, she took two books out of her bag, one for herself and one for her man. She then took out a pair of glasses for her man to use as well. And for one hundred and twenty-six blocks they read their perspective books in silence. I watched and I watched as they read. I had to consciously turn my head because I felt obsessed.

There had been something in that amazing gesture. She carries his glasses and his book. They have their routine. "We get on the subway, and we ride for a long time," I could imagine her saying, "So I bring along our books to read, and I have to hold on to his glasses or else he'll forget them."

To me, that's love.

She seemed gentle and nurturing. She had even buried her cleavage at one point, tucking her sweater closed. After a while, they both grew sleepy, so she put away their books and his glasses, tucked her arm under his, and nestled her head on his shoulder to nap away the remainder of the trip. He too, cradled her head with his own.

Love... until the A train kicked us off at 168th!

The train that came to complete our journey was not "shortly". It took fifteen minutes to show up. And then it had the nerve to take us only one stop up the line before that operator told us it had to wait for track construction and a southbound train to pass on the remaining track.

After the fourth such announcement in the next fifteen minutes, I bolted. The operator was lying to me.

I've discovered that I hate being lied to. So much so that I couldn't sit another minute, listening to the excuses. There was no southbound train arriving to let us go forward, or else it would have come. The operator was feeding us tales to keep us calm. It backfired. I launched out of the subway with a stream of under-my-breath curses. I could have sat there longer, or even have taken a nap, seeing how late it was and how many cookies I had eaten already, if only that idiot would not have lied to me. So I got mad and went up into the night.

And there was The Schoolmarm and Her Guy! They had left the train below too! Only, whereas they caught a cab--I walked 46 blocks home. Next time, I need to remember that the buses stop running after 1 AM, and that I hate giving unnecessary money to cabs more than I hate lying train conductors.

I ate my BBQ on the way.

So today, I knew I had to go to The Park and jog. And soon as I get there, on this beautiful, amazing, 71 degree, cloudless day--here comes Underwear Model Man jogging shirtless toward me. There were hundreds of others around too, and dozens of other joggers, but this guy became the center of the universe for the seconds it took to get out of my range of vision. I don't really know if he models underwear, but he had the physique and good looks for it.

What gets me is the very real possibility that he isn't a model. That he's just some white guy with crazy good looks who maybe works in some bank or some law firm, who takes care of himself, goes out to beer with the guys after work (Miller Lite, of course), and has some boringly normal girlfriend that he lives with. That he's just a normal Joe with good genetics that he enhances by jogging, taking care of himself, and doesn't freaking binge eats Mrs. Field's freakin' cookies at 1 AM in the morning!!! There are so many of these Joes.

And that's why I've eaten my last cookie--I'm a Joe, too, dammit! It's time for my turn to jog with no shirt on!!