I am overly dramatic.
I am not an addict. But I imagine an affinity to all addicts. I know the torture of wanting what you can’t have. (Just one taste. Could it be so bad? Yes? Really?)
I am suspicious.
I believe you truly want the best of me. But if you hand me a coffee, I will question whether you added sugar like an inquisitor in the dark ages. (Are you trying to derail my diet?)
I am superstitious.
I don’t believe in curses or black cats. But I look both ways when I cross empty streets. And I look at cracks on the sidewalk like near-deadly threats. (What if I twist my ankle? How will I pose?)
I am cautious.
I usually revel in trying new things. But right now I am not interested in going skydiving. Or ATVing. Or even riding a bike down a small hill. (What if I fall? No amount of tanning will cover that bruise!)
I am juvenile.
I am grown. But I pout like a child when you tell me I chose to do this show. I chose to go on this diet. I chose this sport. (What’s your point??)
I am temperamental.
I am usually a veritable ray of sunshine. But right now . . . Not so much.
I am being overly dramatic.
I am just a hungry bodybuilder. Dreaming of milk in my coffee. Of ranch dressing on my salad. Of cheese in my eggs.
Three weeks to go.
And I am just being overly dramatic.