The Herald Bulletin
---- — I really like cream cheese.
I mean I REALLY like cream cheese.
If you ask me, Mr. Philadelphia was some kind of genius. Cream cheese makes everything it touches edible. Have you ever rolled a chunk of cream cheese up inside a circle of bologna? It practically creates a party in your mouth. If you shove cream cheese into a celery ditch, you don't even realize you are consuming a string infested vegetable. Smeared generously on a rice cake (aka: styrofoam) it completely recreates the entire culinary experience. And don't even get me started on the subject of cream cheese on butter flavored crackers.
Add some sugar and you have a cheesecake. A little garlic and seasoning and you have a vegetable dip.
Yep, in my book cream cheese is practically the perfect food.
But there is a little problem with cream cheese. It doesn't pass through the digestive system and drench the body with nutrients like leafy green vegetables or blueberries or steel cut oats. In fact, it takes an entirely different trip altogether. It stays in cream cheese form and takes the express route straight to the fat cells in the belly, in the arms, and in my case - the head. Those fat cells accept it with wide open hungry mouths and inflate like ecstatically happy cream cheese filled hot air balloons.
We have developed what is essentially a cream cheese emergency at my house. I would even say we have a crisis. While most people are literally made of mostly water, in my case.....well, I might as well have "Philadelphia" tattooed on my backside. If I stand in the right light, you will see that I am covered, not in cellulite, but in cream cheese bricks.
And as for Seth — he has his own "Klondike" bar tattoo.
Obviously something needed to be done.
Considering the outstanding success of our Hilly Hundred biking ordeal, we decided as a couple that we should stay inside our house and attempt to achieve our fitness goals in private. At least nobody would laugh at us in our living room as long as we kept the curtains closed.
And then we did what any normal fat American couple would do. We leaned back in our matching recliners - and peered over our mounded bellies and watched infomercials to find solutions to our problems.
Of course it didn't take long to meet the guy who had all the answers. His name was Shaun T and he said all the right things.
"It's about TIME," he said.
"Twenty-five minutes a day is all you need."
"This is my gym, and you're gonna work. I'm gonna get you to where you wanna be."
He had some serious enthusiasm. Plus anyone who speaks to a chubby midwestern couple and uses the words 'gonna' and 'wanna' is, without a doubt, a trustworthy guy.
As the voice of reason in our household (disturbing as that may be) I had a talk with Seth. I was kind and tactful.
"Listen pork chop...we are ridiculous," I said. I absentmindedly flipped the saggy wad of cream cheese blubber hanging under my chin, and it began to swing from side to side. "It's all downhill from 50, so if we want any quality of life before we shrivel up and die then we better lose the lard."
"Don't we have a whole bunch of fitness videos?" he asked.
"Yes. If only we would do them. But they are too LONG."
"Fine. I'll do whatever it takes," he said.
I called the toll-free number on the TV screen and placed my order. We got free express shipping, so we were just a few days from starting our 60-day journey to extreme fitness.
But a journey of this magnitude does not always begin smoothly.
I will tell you about that the next time ...
To Be Continued ...
Theresa Timmons' column appears every first and third Sunday. She is an Elwood resident and can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.