31 Flavoring

Back in college, my friend Nikki and I used to have little competitions to see who could lose the most weight. Nothing like a couple of coeds duking it out to see who can look like an Olsen twin first. Every once in awhile we’d lose our stride and find ourselves at the local 31 Flavors, desperate for a little sugar high.

One particular Sunday, we found ourselves debating the merits of chocolate peanut butter ice cream (the best!) versus chocolate chip cookie dough. Earlier that morning, we had both decided that we deserved a double scoop because both of us were down another two pounds. Nikki ordered first, choosing both flavors on a sugar cone. As she started to lick the chocolate off of the edge of the cone, I quietly told the clerk my order. Halfway through her first scoop, she realized that I had out-gamed her and ordered frozen yogurt. Thus, from then on, we called it “31 Flavoring” someone.

Cut to today at a store that was simply labeled “Coffee” in Silverthorne, Colorado. Chris and I were standing at the counter debating what to order when I remembered our recent vow to cut extra calories prior to our wedding day. This vow flew out the window as I was immediately taken by the chocolate peanut butter mocha (heaven in a coffee cup) while Chris was checking out the Mocha Nut (fitting). We both hestitated, waiting for the other person to order first. I finally gave in and did the right thing by ordering regular drip coffee, sans sugar and fanfare. Chris followed suit by going with his own cup, forgoing the tasty drink in favor of not adding to the epidemic that is known as Fat Car Ass.

As we got into the car, I remuniated for a moment about the fact that I totally could have 31 flavored him if I had played it right. By ordering first, I completely set the tone for our inevitable drip coffee selections.

I am totally losing my edge and it’s scaring me.

Fat Car Ass

Driving around the country has been an awesome experience. Nothing says America quite like flooring the Fusion and screaming down a Michigan highway at 111 miles per hour. Sailing through the scenery is like a magic getaway as you watch the odometer tick, tick, tick toward the next one thousand mile mark.

And then it happens.

You’re standing in a guestroom in a basement in Wausau, Wisconsin, trying to pull a pair of jeans up around your ass that used to fit four weeks ago. Tugging and pulling, you manage to fasten the button on the jeans without breaking your hand- but just barely. You turn to take in your rear view when you see it:

YOUR MASSIVE FAT CAR ASS.

That’s right. In the past month you’ve gone from gym-toned to home-grown faster than you can say “I’d like another beer please.” Suddenly, visions of yourself in your wedding dress become like a nightmare reel, playing faster and faster as you clamp your hands over your ears and scream, “I should’ve used Splenda! I should’ve said no to the fried cheese kurds!”

The next day, you climb into the car with new resolve. Every three miles you do butt-ups, clenching and releasing to the beat of “Poker Face” by Lady GaGa. At night, you scan your backside
for improvement, but find that you still can’t quite recognize the misshapen ass that is staring back at you.

With only two weeks to go, you’re already planning the fast you’ll go on the second that you step out of your car and back into real life. But until then… bring on the miles and the french toast. This is America, after all.