Since August, I’ve managed, quite easily, to put 12 pounds of schlubitude around my central torso. For this, I’m afraid I’m going to have to blame the Mexicans.
Specifically, Mexican food. In the past year, I have developed what one might call a “jones” for comidas de Mexicana, especially enchiladas, tacos, burritos, chimichangas, mariscos, guacamole, pico de gallo, taquitos, chilaquiles and fajitas, to name but a few of the problem areas. Also playing a factor are the chips and salsa that always land in your face immediately after being seated at any Mexican food establishment, whether it be a class joint or a simple Casa de Greaso. The chips are always there. I thought I was being a paragon of restraint by only consuming the one basket of chips, and that one basket only. Never will you catch me begging for more chips, thinking this is exactly the same strategy that the founding members of Weight Watchers would employ. I may have to double check on that.
So yes, I’m now suspecting that the multiple trips to fave Mexican joints in the area on a weekly basis might be at the root of this blubberian assault around my once visible obliques. Indeed, my six-pack of abs have now morphed into a solid, smooth MonoAb, and I’m now getting very suspicious about chicken mole’s part in all this. But equal blame must go, I fear, not to just Mexican food, but Mexican drink as well. As in the damn Margaritas.
One blessing/curse that’s a player in my mouth is my sweet tooth. I’ve got a good one. Never have outgrown it. So, in trying to get a handle on the carb-loaded goodies of this world, I’ve tried to go cold turkey on cookies, brownies, pastries, etc., with mixed results. Some days are good in terms of disciplined performance in this area, others are a bit more mediocre. But generally, the cookies/goodies zone of the supermarket has been getting avoided. Most of the time.
But the tyrannical sweetness receptors on my lively tongue are raging bitches indeed, and constantly howl at me to service their needs. That’s where the Margaritas come into play. These sweet, luscious cocktails deliver on two levels. Namely, mildly pleasant inebriation (unleashing usually dormant powers of frightful wittiness and debonair suavicity) and sugar (quieting the shrieks of those neglected glucose buds on the tongue tip). Small wonder that I can knock down margies in the same way a frat boy blows up a 12-pack of Keystone Light.
I finally made it down here to Mexico, after my screwup at LAX last week with the passport and all. I’m currently in the sleepy Baja town of Loreto, which, I’m discovering, is a fine town for January sun and toxic cafes. The mole is ultra tasty. And boy, do they know how to make Margaritas. I may be buying an extra seat for the flight home.