My Perfect Excuse to Eat More Nutty Bars

There’s a quote that will forever live rent-free in my head. 

“Well, that’s what happens when you put unleaded in a premium vehicle”

A football player told a reporter this in response to shitting himself in a movie theater because he ate some delicious popcorn and mozzarella sticks. 

What an absolute comedian. 

Does this answer relate to me because I’ve shit myself? Yes. But that’s not the focus here. 

The point is that this hilarious answer made me have an epiphany about food.

I love to shovel junk food into my mouth like it’s going out of style. My absolute favorite junk that goes straight to my trunk is Nutty Bars and brownies. Holy hell, I could live off these chocolate delights forever.

I know, I’m sounding like an absolute American here, but I need to emphasize that a fat kid is living inside me. And guess what? He’s always hungry. I’ve been fighting this little stomach goblin for years to make sure my belly doesn’t balloon over my toes. I’ll tell you what, this endless wrestling match is downright exhausting! I wish I could say I have a perfect record against the Goblin, but oh, I’d be lying. 

As of late, this god damn stomach goblin was starting to win. I started tacking on pounds once I left my job and started working from home. Unsurprisingly, working from home is a lot more sedentary than cooking in a restaurant. Who would’ve guessed? 

I’ve tried to stick to workout regimens and not indulge in the dessert life. No dice. Go for a run for the fun of it? I’m a literal dog. I have to be chasing a ball to make running not feel like my personal hell.

Eating like a trash panda was clearly taking a toll on my body. I began to notice the classic love handles and man boobs start to form, and boy oh boy, I began to question everything. You could see exactly where those Dominos slices were making cozy little homes for themselves. 

On top of gaining some weight, I was getting winded by simple activities like walking up the stairs or mowing the lawn. Classic symptoms of the ol’ meat wagon being completely out of shape. 

Well, something clearly had to be done.

To Fitbit or Not to Fitbit

During this moment of reflection, Kacey had been talking about getting a new Fitbit because hers wouldn’t hold a charge anymore. I had contemplated getting a new one with her, but I had a mixed bag a feelings about wrist companions. My last experience with a Fitbit was quite unfriendly to say the least.

I think I wore one for 3 months or so before I swore Fitbits off completely. Now, I didn’t mind tracking my steps or calories burned. I was working doubles at the time, so seeing 30,000 steps was pretty rewarding. My main problem was seeing the amount of sleep I didn’t get. Yes Fitbit, I’m exhausted this morning. I sure as shit don’t need you to tell me how bad I slept and mock me with an embarrassingly low sleep score. Thanks, but no thanks. 

But, as I mentioned earlier, the Stomach Goblin was kicking my ass. I figured, oh what the hell. If I can use a little wrist warrior to give me an advantage in this fight with my stomach, fuck it. I’m in. 

The first night of owning my brand new Fitbit was rather interesting to say the least.

It was a night of sweaty gaming sessions, and I had my Fitbit off because it was getting mildly uncomfortable. Dominos was of course the dinner of choice to recharge and refuel my mind, body and soul. 

Except on that night, I was entering sixth slice territory. My body was warning me with incoming meat sweats, and my eyes were half way closed as I was about to enter the coveted pizza coma. I thought I’d have to just succumb to the Stomach Goblin in this moment. He was drooling to get that sixth slice in. I was begging on my knees, not wanting that last slice of pizza to enter my mouth hole. 

Then, in a flash, my wrist was captured by a black rubber wristband. The band fastened itself tight and vibrated this morse code message: Y O U A R E G O I N G T O D I E. D R O P T H E P I E. I all of a sudden understood morse code, I guess. Huh, “You are going to die. Drop the pie” Well, you heard the wristband, pizza slice. I have to drop you now. I don’t want to die. 

Looking closer at this flying black band, this was my Fitbit I had set down earlier! Except now, engraved on the inside of the band, I saw the name Philip The Fitbit glowing. I couldn’t believe it. Philip the Fitbit was known as the most legendary wrist warrior in his time. To see him here, saving my life from the pizza slice, was shocking to say the least. I couldn’t believe it. 

Waking up from my pizza coma, sweating from such an intense dream, I immediately looked for my Fitbit. He was exactly where I set him. I quickly inspected the inside of the band to see if Philip was engraved. Nothing. That had to of been a dream, right? 

Dream or not, It honestly didn’t matter. My Fitbit was named Philip from that day forward. You never know.

Philip The Legend

My experience wearing Philip has been nothing but positive this time around. Sleep score aside – we still have some beef there – I truly only wear Philip the Fitbit for one reason only. So I can eat whatever the hell I want without feeling a modicum of guilt.

That’s probably the answer the Stomach Goblin wants, but fuck it. I love food so much. 

Philip tracks the amount of steps I take and how many calories I’ve burned in a day. The two most important metrics in my mind. Why? Because I sync those metrics with another app called MyFitnessPal, which logs what I’ve eaten in a day. MyFitnessPal tracks my calorie goal for the day, subtracts the calories I’ve eaten, and adds extra calories I can eat because of exercise. Thanks to our good friend Philip for tracking that last bit. 

I have this entire system in place so I can literally consume more Nutty Bars, have another slice of pizza, or eat an extra handful of Mike and Ikes.

Yes, getting my ass up to exercise and achieving my step goal for the day has been an added bonus, I will admit. Kacey and I have also gone on a lot more walks and longer hikes together, which I thank Philip from the bottom of my heart for. 

If you love food as much as I do, I’d highly suggest getting yourself a Philip of your own. But not my Philip. Although, I still want to punt his ass off a cliff sometimes. I guess you can say we have a love-hate kind of relationship. Something we’re still working on. 

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