I had good intentions yesterday morning. 

I was going to eat healthy. Get my recommended protein and fiber intake. Chow down on fruits and vegetables. Not snack. Not eat a bunch of junk.

At some point within the next week, I will record three days’ worth of food in preparation for visiting a personal trainer.  I won some introductory sessions at a fundraiser auction for my local Dolly Parton Imagination Library. At the time, I thought, “Good cause,” and, “why not?” The bid was low, as is my estrogen. Gee thanks, perimenopause. And since I’ve had the blessing of hormone receptor positive breast cancer, there will be no hormone replacement therapy for me.

I will make it through on sheer grit and determination, the same as sage women of yesteryear had to endure. I feel like the female subject in Grant Woods’ American Gothic. She is actually the farmer’s daughter and not his wife, as I’d always assumed. Still, she looks a little worn and constipated. She could use some collagen and hyaluronic acid, and maybe some extra protein, fiber, and Crossfit sessions.

Therefore, a smoothie would be my breakfast. I can knock down fifty grams of protein through a straw. Who needs steak and eggs when you’ve got a couple of canisters of industrial strength powdered plant material? 

But first, I need my bullet blender, plus my all-in-one cup for fast preparation: blend it up, change the blade attachment to a regular lid, pop in a straw, and out the door. A word to the wise: don’t leave the cup in the car when you’ve finished. Remember, there’s some fiber in the mix, and dried particles left in a hot car will sour faster than a middle schooler’s socks.

But the blade is nowhere to be found. I search all the usual spots: the cabinets, the drawers, the dish drainer. I remember using it before Easter dinner, and I washed it and put it in the drainer. Someone else must have put it away. Youngest Daughter has left for school already, and Sweet Husband is showering. I can’t ask them, and I’m already running late for work.

So a mere ten-gram protein bar will be my breakfast.

A pack of trail mix is my snack. 

Lunch is red beans and rice from a local restaurant, and on a cool and rainy spring day, it’s a dish that does not disappoint.

I’m doing well thus far.

Dessert is some fruit I found in the refrigerator at my workplace, some leftovers of a tray from a meeting on Monday. It’s a few grapes, and a strawberry almost as large as my fist.

It’s not enough. There are some ice cream sandwiches in the freezer, so I help myself.

On the way home, I am tempted to continue the ice cream theme with a cookies and cream shake at a local fast food joint, but I know something better is waiting for me.

I’ve got a large bowl of leftover chocolate cobbler, which I immediately dig into when I get home. I don’t even warm it up. Cold, coagulated, salted butter around the edges of the crust sticks to you better.

I’ve fallen off the wagon, so I might as well roll around in the dirt. 

Next on the list is an unopened bag of thin, barbecue potato chips. I inhale the spice and the grease after opening the bag, and the first chip is large, savory, and perfectly crispy. I eat several before I put them away, only to pull out the leftover potato salad from Easter dinner. I grab a box of savory crackers and a slice of store brand cheddar cheese and proceed to eat directly from the bowl of potato salad, my cheese and crackers lying on top of the lid of the bowl, as if it were a plate. 

It’s time to walk the dog, and she is ready to run today. I half jog as she drags me around the yard, and while I’m glad for the activity, it’s not going to burn off what I’ve just inhaled in those ten vital minutes right after getting home from work, the time of day that I’m most tempted to eat a hole in the wall.

I’m sweating when I come back inside, and I drink a glass of water. I know I should have a proper supper, but I only had a few potato chips earlier. Surely I can tolerate a few more. Then there is the bag of homemade rolls my aunt left us from our Sunday get together, and one warmed up with a little butter won’t hurt anything. 

When I finally eat what I consider supper, it is a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. I slurp down the cinnamon-sugar flavored milk, and I pretend not to remember reading that scientists have discovered a link between dairy products and cancer. 

Oh, and lest I forget, there’s supposedly a connection between sugar and cancer, too, although this article says nada.

I’m clearing the remains of my evening bacchanalia when I spy the bullet blender on the countertop, and I notice something gleaming from its middle.

I take a peek, and the blade attachment is nestled in the bottom. 

Sweet Husband said he had put it there when he was clearing the dish drainer. 

If it had been a snake, it would have bit me. I swear, I didn’t see it in the morning.

If only bags of barbecue chips would blend in better with their surroundings. 

If only I had a bowl of red beans and rice in my refrigerator instead of chocolate cobbler.

If only I could manage to have a little better self-control.

I don’t think this will be one of the three days I record for my visit with the trainer. I can do better.

I’ll start with a smoothie.

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My current favorite smoothie is a stick-to-your-ribs concoction of peanut butter, chocolate, and banana. Since life is short, and we should eat dessert first, this smoothie satisfies with sweetness but is packed with protein and fiber. Here’s my not exactly exact recipe:

• 1 banana, preferably frozen (great way to use slightly overripe bananas – peel them and stick them in a bag in the freezer)
• 1 serving of peanut butter powder (mine is 2 T)
• 1 serving of chocolate protein powder (mine is 2 scoops)
• 1 serving Greek vanilla yogurt
• For additional good fats, protein, and colon-blow fiber power, throw in some ground flaxseed, chia seed, pumpkin seed, or sunflower seed (you get the idea – any kind of seed will do)
• Water – enough so the finished product doesn’t look like sludge used in a game show challenge on Nickelodeon.
• OR use almond milk. More calcium, more protein. I’m trying here, but almond milk would make my dairy farmer of a granddaddy roll in his grave. I’ve not developed the taste buds for it yet.

Blend away! I sometimes have to stop, open the cup, and scrape the sides with a spoon. Remember, this is solid, industrial strength stuff. You’ll feel like joining an Ironman triathlon after powering up with one of these treats.