Digale no! à los carbs...

It is 24 degrees outside. Coño! I just had pan con mantequilla and a café. I’m dreading going to the supermarket. Just the thought of standing outside and loading the bags into the trunk of the car as that motherfucking arctic wind whips me in the face mocking me and saying ‘this is North Carolina bitch’ is enough to make me consider buying my groceries on-line.

Twenty-four degrees? Is this like some crazy joke? I thought it only got that cold in Alaska or Maine or one of those other far away states where white people are at one with nature. What is even worse is that I have very fond memories of happily stuffing my face my first winter in college in Pennsylvania with bagels and coffee from Dunkin Doughnuts and the freshman fifteen soon became the sophomore thirty. So not only am I turning into a hermit by not wanting to leave the warm apartment, I’m obsessed with not gaining any winter weight. I own every fucking exercise dvd Target offers. I’m drinking a lot of water with lemon and I’m carb-counting.

Me, carb-counting is just ridiculous. I LOVE rice and beans and yucca and tostones and bacalaitos and anything fried that is kept warm under those heat lamps at the corner bodega. So as my thoughts turn to the 305 area code and warmer days and palm trees and latin comfort food, I try to ease my Miami longings by blasting Buena Vista Social Club in the car on my way to that Pilates class I signed up for and nibble on some fruit on the way. God forbid for me to visit my amigas later on this year and them put it to me bluntly ‘Ay chica! Te has puesto gorda’…