The fatness of being

It has happened. The time has come. This evening, I went for a jog.

In fairness to it, it was a very nice jog.
The sun has been shining all day, so it was still warm but a lovely breeze was blowing and the low sun was turning all the skyscrapers beautiful shades of oranges, reds and pinks.
People were out, walking their dogs, taking a post work stroll, or jogging. Somewhat faster than me I might add.
All the rich bastards who don’t have to work were out on their pretty little sail boats, dotted along the Hudson River between me and the Stature of Liberty.
It was undeniably lovely.

But this is surely a sign of desperation on my part.
Everyone said moving to New York would make me thin.
“New Yorkers aren’t like other Americans. They walk everywhere. They are really health conscious. They all go to the gym. You wont be able to help it.”
But it seems I continue to be immune to the draw of the gym, and yet have discovered I am able to eat more and more of the enormous portions placed in front of me in restaurants here.
Where once I balked at a whole pizza, now I eat it and wonder what is for pudding.
I have come to think of pretzels as necessary to my survival, and a fat filled Starbucks trip is an every day essential.

Trust me to pick up the worst American trait I could.
So the belly is going to be dispatched, at great personal cost to me and great financial cost to Adrienne’s, purveyors of the finest pizza this side of the Atlantic.

Now I have announced it there is no going back.
Wish me luck.