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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.