Emerald Isle - I heart you

Since the day I was born, I have been subjected to annual trips to North Carolina shores during the first week of August. This year is no exception, but is much more nostalgic than before as I haven't even seen North Carolina for almost a year. The crashing waves and salty air are always the first to greet you as you cross the bridge to Emerald Isle and Morehead City, and there is almost nothing else I would love to be greeted by, ever.

On the way to the beach, my family and I also stop to see my uncles, have lunch, and walk around their farm before finishing the last leg of the drive to the coast. They have 2 beautiful horses, 2 insanely cute new dogs, a bevy of fruit and nut producing trees, grapevines, and an in-home theater - we always enjoy ourselves, to say the least. The perennial courtesy showed to us in their home makes the hour + lunch and farm tour a great opportunity to see family, rest our legs, and catch up on things.

I've made a pact with the devil that after arriving to any beach - I must enter the water within the first 30 minutes of being there. This being said, after pulling into the house, unpacking the car, I did just that. The water was more-or-less luke warm, and placid as a pond. I'd have preferred waves, but it was nice to feel the salty water hold my body calmly and aimlessly float about. The oceanfront is such a mesmerizing place. I find myself staring out into the deep, watching the waves crash, and thinking of nothing, and everything, all at the same time. Between the snow and the sea, I couldn't tell you which I enjoy more, but they both have a captivating hold over me that possibly is on par with transcendental meditation, or something crazy like that. 

Chub in the tub

While I am realistically underweight, the excess grasa that has developed around the old "love handles" and its surrounding extremities has become something steadily bulging out of control.

The heavy amount of drinking (until 6.am.), and eating of generally delicious (aka - fatty) foods in Spain set me up for disaster during my summer in the U.S.A. These activities were relatively inconsequential in Spain because walking and biking were my modes of transportation. The baneful idea of exercise has now changed from the relatively painless, and necessary, simple transportation, to that monster in the hillside... planned exercise. Time must be set solely to ensure the effective breakdown of whatever insanely appetizing foods i've eaten.

Speaking of those, ever since the glorious celebration of our country's independence struck, I decided to accelerate my consumption of hamburgers and hot-dogs. Within that fatal week, I believe records could prove that I ate at least 7 hamburgers and 4 hot-dogs, all accompanied with slaw and cheese. Of course while traveling, fast food fills the newly chubby, yet empty, stomach of yours truly. I even tried to order something less appetizing, such as a grilled chicken breast instead of a fried one, no mayo instead of the normal heaping slabs, and water in place of sugary sodas. No fast food is going to help. I need to turn into a rabbit, or implement "la dieta de la cucaracha".

* I promise that I am not about to attempt to sell you a Tony Little's Gazelle Air Walker.*

I am about to get some headbands and running shoes, and kick this panzon in, well, the stomach..