I've gotta fever...and the only prescription is less Starbucks... 

5 pounds?


5 pounds?

In the nearly 8 months since I migrated from Virginia to South Carolina, I’ve gained 5 pounds. For someone who has maintained the same weight from the age of 19 to 26 years old, that’s slightly distressing.

Is it distressing? Yes.

Is it surprising? Hmmm, no. Not really.

When I left the Old Dominion State, I was running at least 6-8 miles per day. I ate whatever I wanted, based on the idea that I’d be burning anywhere from 500-1500 calories per workout.

Here? I haven’t burned anything (unless you count charred pop tarts and movie theatre style popcorn).

Don’t get me wrong…my ass doesn’t have its own helipad or anything, but it is making me take a more thoughtful look at the kind of crap I shovel into my face.

Starbucks. …Heaven in a cup. My office recently moved to another building whilst the old one is renovated. I now live only 4 blocks from work instead of 8. …and would you believe it? In the FOUR blocks I have to walk to work, there’s a Starbucks. Calling out to me. Beckoning me.

“Drink me, Kerry. You DESERVE me. Get a scone too. You’re worth it. Scones and mochas will provide much needed nourishment for you to perform at your best.”

Hello? Scones and mochas? Nevermind that my favorite scone has over 500 calories and my favorite mocha has over 350. Put some whipped cream on there too. …on the scone and the mocha. Why not? It’s breakfast! Mom is always trying to get me to eat breakfast!

After recognizing that I was wasting half of my daily calories on garbage (2-3 times per week!)…the words “skinny,” “non-fat,” (and Heaven forbid) “tall,” have slowly started to work themselves into my vocabulary. My once delicious mocha with whipped has transformed into a tall, skinny, non-fat, vanilla latte.

That’s why it was so jarring to hear the words “venti, whole milk, 8-pump, vanilla latte,” from the woman in front of me in line this morning.

Whole milk!? 8 pumps!?

I nearly fainted. I had to tense all the muscles in my face in order for the blood to start rushing back to my head. She was like a walking tragedy in sweatpants.

I felt like I was in one of those cliché war movies where a hero leaps in slow motion to shield a comrade from a bullet…

“NOOOOOOOOOOO!” I yelled as I did a Superman-like dive into the open space between the Barista and the Tragedy in Sweatpants.

Alas, the Tragedy in Sweatpants ambled happily out the door with her treat, not to be seen again.


I’m getting older. It’s freaky. This May marks FIVE years that I’ve been OUT of college.

Gone are the days of eating Twizzlers for dinner. …and I think I’m pretty sad about it. Sad enough to eat a couple scones.


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