Why I hate exercising and eating right

I hate it when my sister is right. I called her for a perfectly legitimite bitch and moan session and she listened politely, and essentially told me to get off my butt and exercise. She said it much more nicely than that, of course. And she was right. Grrr. Argh.

So why does it always feel so impossible? Why do I get the urge to eat an entire box of Koffee Kup glazed donuts?--6 of them. Count them. 6. And no, they weren't mini donuts. And why, when I have an exercise machine (I confess, it's The Gazelle) that I enjoy using since I can then justify watching at least one episode of Gilmore Girls, Smallville, or Desperate Housewives (I'm alternating according to mood, which doesn't actually work since I'm netflixing), why oh why is it so hard to just do it (sorry, too lazy to avoid the cliche.)

Of course, I have to move the Gazelle about 3 feet, put on running shoes and workout clothes, and insert the DVD. And my daughter does sleep in the same room as I do, which is also the only room the gazelle fits in, so exercising while she's asleep is not really an option.

I know I'll feel better if I exercise, just like I know I'll feel like crap after the donut pig-out. Why aren't I exercising every day? Of course, my therapist would probably say that I should see it in a different way. We had a great talk yesterday about negative attitudes. She was totally right, of course. And hey, my sister brought up something similar in our talk.

But it's hard not to be negative when your life sucks!!!!

Just kidding (kinda).

I suppose I could think instead that I am exercising every day, since I exercised tonight and there is no reason that I won't wake up and exercise tomorrow.

Then again, Dunkin Donuts is only a couple blocks away . . .

I miss my old life. That's the real problem. And I can never go back.

My daughter called me tonight, after having a wonderful time at Pizza Putt and an anarchist meeting with both her father and her grandmother (my mother-in-law.) She was exhausted to the point of tears and said she wanted me. It broke my heart.

I told her how much fun she would have tomorrow with her dad and grandma, and that I would see her the day after that, on Friday. I told her Pablo and Baby Sarah were there with her too (2 of her stuffed toys.) I sang her a lullabye, told her I loved her and that it was no fun here at the house because I was working.

It's getting harder to tell her everything is fine. It's hard to be excited about her excursions with her father, since a part of me has lost a ton of respect for him. Not that I'd ever tell her that (and believe me, when she starts reading and surfing the net (like, tomorrow, at the rate she's going the little smarty-pants) all traces of this blog entry will be gone. I'll leave her the funny ones, the light-hearted ones, since she deserves to know that this was hard for me too. But the critical ones will have to go. Some days I know that's the right thing to do. And some days that makes me sick to my stomach.

How does anyone do this? Are they really eating all that well and exercising? Is that the secret to surviving divorce?

Ok. Pity party officially coming to a close. But if you know anyone who knows anyone who exercises daily, can you send them my way? I'd really love to know their secret. Especially if they can also cook.

Goodnight Nobody. Goodnight mush.