The cash that would normally go into your 401K instead goes towards Trident cinnamon gum purchases. You don't dare count up how much you spend in a month on gum. It would slap you in the face with your addiction. Nevermind the constant ache in your jaw that should be a reminder of your problem.
You find yourself running to the bathroom every thirty minutes at work. Yes, you have to pee. But the real reason is to check and make sure your abs are still there and didn't take a hike when you arrived at work that morning.
Your birthday gift wish list includes a cathater.
You have a stockpile of deoderant: in your bathroom, your purse, your office desk drawer, your gym bag. And yet you still somehow forget to put it on in your mad rush to get out the door while remembering all fifteen jillion bags.
You never have hands to open any doors. Cup of caffeine in one hand, jug of water in another, gym bag, purse, cooler resting precariously on one or both shoulders.
Food or sex? Food or sex? Food or sleep? Food or fun? Food or...? After a show, food will always win.
The idea of lying like a beached whale with a tummy that looks 12-months pregnant and bemoaning your existence while swearing to never eat an entire cheesecake after a complete meal of bacon cheeseburger, fries, and a milkshake actually sounds good.
You begin to crave salads. Even if they have no dressing. To eat like a rabbit would actually be nice. To eat a piece of gum would be nice. To have just one luxurious sip of diet cherry vanilla Dr. Pepper would be heaven.
Everything tastes like chicken. Ummm...that's because every meal is chicken.
You want to snap the heads off of everyone at the gym because they're using your weights. All of the weights in the gym are your weights. YOU are doing a show. THEY aren't. They aren't as important, and they should know that. You are seconds from screaming at everyone, "Get the ?@*! out of my way!!"
You actually take the long way around the gym to get to the restroom to avoid talking to or being noticed by someone who just wants to say hello. No time for hello. No time. No time. NO TIME!!
You get such joy and glee out of watching a guy lift miniscule weight and then telling him, "No, I do not want to work in. I have to put weight ON that bar...not take it OFF." <Girly giggle following that statement and evil glint in eye because you know you just crushed that poor boy's ego.>
You know what time it is by what meal it is. Meal 2? 10 a.m. Meal 5? 4:30 p.m.
You are the ultimate multi-tasker. You can take a shower, cook your chicken, do a load of laundry, run the dishwasher, upload photos, and send text messages all at the same time.
You run late everywhere. Everywhere! Even with all that multi-tasking.
Have food, will travel. You have no shame about whipping out the chicken and asparagus anywhere and anytime. If push comes to shove, the meal will be eaten in the sitting room of the Nordstrom's restroom.
You have mastered the art of doing hair and make up in six minutes flat. I didn't say doing it well. I just said doing it.
Everyone wonders if you are preparing for a second Hurricane Katrina evacuation. Why else would you purchase 12 one-gallon jugs of spring or distilled water at one time?
