You’re jerking open a bag of Lay’s, experiencing that singular anticipation of something salty and satisfying sliding down your gullet...
Suddenly, I appear out of nowhere and smack the bag out of your hand. Before you can do much more than release an astonished gasp, my size 13 Converse is stomping the everloving sh*t out of those chips while I laugh a decidedly evil laugh.
No, I can’t really slap that bag of chips outta your hands, even though just thinking about doing such an audacious thing puts a silly smile on my kisser.
Yes, I’m a big enough man (figuratively) to admit it: I get a sick thrill to think about following you around and forcing you to act right.
Make you think about eating right because you’re worried about my snide comment or fierce glare.
Make you think about stuffing your face because you’re worried about me getting up in your grill.
Make you keep a watchful eye on the rear-view mirror while you’re in the drive-thru lane, worried that some overprotective psycho is going to ram your vehicle from behind.
See… that made me smile again.
I’d love to be your personal Diet Nazi, your weight-loss enforcer.
A bodyguard in the truest sense of the word.
I need one, too. Someone to ride shotgun and talk me down from the ledge when I think about straying off plan. Someone to provide a little tough love when… well, when the going gets tough. Someone who loves me enough to rough me up when I need roughing up.
Unfortunately, I can’t slap you around or impose my will on you by intimidation or force. I can’t do that for you, and you can’t do that for me.
But we can watch each other’s backs as we blog our journey to a fitter life. We can help keep each other honest, help keep each other on the straight and narrow. I got your back... you got mine.
Isn’t that what a bodyguard’s for, after all?
To keep us safe.