Ah, the Mustang. A car that elicits hatred from my wife and drooling from me. Yet, tonight, my wife uttered those magic words: "You can get a Mustang." I know she hates them and views them as trashy ("Arkansas," in her words) and impractical. I don't necessarily agree with the trashy, though I won't argue against the fact that owning a Mustang is probably the pinnacle of many a good ol' boy's life. I also see that it's an impractical car, but come on! It's a Mustang and it's also mostly a guy thing. Oh well. Anyway, my point is that Wanda gave me the go-ahead to get one of these if I wanted to; she will no longer (verbally) judge me for wanting to have one.
Under one condition:
That I drop about fifty-five pounds from my fluffy frame and get down to 180 pounds. And I also have to stay at that weight. As far as how long I need to remain at that weight is concerned, we've decided on six months for now. I suppose we'll have to see how well I do in my weight loss program and how much I've actually changed my diet and exercise practices. I mean, I'm not going to crash-diet and lose half of the weight by next week! No, this is something that's going to take me a while and that's okay. Weight has become a problem of mine in the past few years and I think something solid like this is a good goal for me to have. Nevermind that the thought of having a heart attack in ten years and dying at thirty-five doesn't seem to motivate me to watch what I eat and exercise. No, it takes the thought of owning a car that gets me ready to jump back on the moderation train with gusto. Oh well, I suppose it's progress.
