Life Tastes Better at KFC
Tonight’s hunger for the baby is KFC. And the thing about fried chicken, aside from being the stereotypical bane of any black person’s existence, its one of the worst things that I can eat as a father-to-be trying to stay fit for the big birthday coming this Fall.
I’m a sucker for fried chicken. It’s a supreme delicacy to me, and I could eat it for all meals from a variety of places. Maybe it’s my southern roots, maybe its the Old Bay that I like to put on it. I love fried chicken. Sadly, I haven’t been to the gym in approximately a week, but I’ve not been shy about my fried chicken and biscuit consumption.
In some ways, I’ve embraced the life of not going to the gym, as it puts my wife and I on an even plane of inactivity. The more tired she gets, (although she has done a masterful job of getting used to it) the less energy she has to devote to her Tae-Bo training regiment. And it works for us if I don’t come in the house sweating from a two-mile run and weight-lifting session, or if I came in smelling of chlorine from 30 minutes of swimming.
So there we have it. She now shares my love for fried chicken, and I match her inability to exercise with complete laziness.
A match made in Heaven, waiting on the stork to bring us bundle of joy and colon cleanser this Fall.
