I overdid it. Now what?

I celebrated Elon University’s Homecoming this past weekend.  Elon is many things.  It’s beautiful, stunningly beautiful.  The student body is smart, attractive, and critical thinkers.  And…we know how to throw a party.  I’m not really going to get into what all I ate/drank yesterday, but suffice it to say, it was off my normal nutritional path.


So, with the holidays approaching, it may happen.  To me, to you, we may overindulge in drinks, food, and feel terrible about ourselves for the rest of the day.  So what do we do when we overindulge?  With the help of our friend, hot mom, Maria Kang, I’ve compiled a few tips to help you beat after-overdoing it despair.  Not that I’d know…

  • If you can, make a plan so that you don’t actually overdo it.  Two Thanksgivings ago, my sister made an amazing pumpkin pie.  I ate SO much pie, that I felt sick for like two days after.  If I’d approached that meal a little more reasonably (like only had a teeny bit of everything), I probably would have saved myself a ton of grief.  Plan.  Plan.  Plan.

So you’ve actually overdone it, and you feel like you need to be rolled to you car…

  • Don’t do this. “Well the day’s already gone to hell, might as well eat everything in sight.” Don’t starve yourself either, though.  Take it one meal at a time.  And your next meal?  It might not be a bad idea to eat something nice and light, so at the very least, you don’t feel like crap the next day.  A salad, some veggies, just something that won’t make you feel like you’ve compounded your issues.
  • Drink water.  For me, it feels like the water flushes out some of the nasty you’ve had.  If you’ve had a meal high in sodium or fat in particular, this tip works wonders.
  • Work out!  This probably isn’t the time for your 20-miler.  And it SHOULD NOT, should not, be viewed as a punishment for yourself.  Just go for a brisk walk to kind of get the gross moving.
  • Do better.  Just move on.  You had a good time, and got a little rowdy with libations.  Next time, plan for better, and try to recommit to healthy foods for the rest of the week.

Do you guys have any tips you like to follow to get back on track after a particularly gnarly meal?

My take on Miz Deen. (And then, can we please be done talking about her?)

I’m sort of getting sick of seeing the aggressive Facebook statuses and Tweets, fiercely defending America’s (formerly, whoops!) chef in light of the latest firestorm she’s under.

In my eyes, Paula’s got a few strikes against her.  She doesn’t really cook for  folks like me, who run and like to watch what they eat and watch their calories.  And I always sort of felt the whole hiding her diagnosis thing while she continued to cook the same way was sort of shady.  But I wasn’t eating her cooking really, so if she wants to be sneaky, I mean that’s her prerogative.  But this latest thing raised my eyebrows for sure.

In case you’ve been living under any sort of rock, here’s kind of the run-down.

Click to kind of inspect.

Okay, so Paula admits to having used the n-word, among some other racially questionable decisions. And what I’m hearing a lot of? This. 

Ben Gann

Okay. Uh. Alright. So quick story, and we’ll get back to my verdict on Paula Deen.

So when I was like 16, I was taking my brother trick-or-treating. He was dressed as the red power ranger, and we were having a blast.  A few kids from my high school rolled up on us in a pickup, threw something, (I think it was eggs or pumpkin or something), and shouted, “Hey nigger, nigger, nigger!” while my  brother looked on.  There was really nothing that made me special or different from any of those kids except for the fact that I was black.  And they chose to use that against me, and ruin not only mine, but my young brother’s Halloween memories for the rest of his life.  That word, as well as many other slurs completely sucks, and choosing to say “who hasn’t said it,” or “why can’t I say it if they can,” are not acceptable responses to this sort of thing.  And P.S., there are a lot of us who don’t use words like that, famous or not.  Okay!

My verdict?  I feel for Paula Deen.  I feel so badly that this whole thing is coming when when racially, our country is on pins and needles.  There’s a lot going on.  There’s the whole Affirmative Action decision the Supreme Court came down with.  There’s the whole George Zimmerman trial.   There’s Trayvon’s Martin’s lawyer’s star witness.  And there’s just a lot of tension.  So I feel for her.  I’m sorry she lost her job(s).  I’m sorry that one by one, everyone seems to be dropping her, from Wal-Mart to her publisher.  And I’m sorry that she feels so sad and hurt by the fact that people now perceive her as racist (probably not as sad as the people she was referring to as the n-word, but she’s a granny, she gets a little sympathy).  But she made a bad decision when she continued to choose to use words that she’s really not supposed to say.  I wish the best for her and her businesses, I truly do.  And I hope that perhaps, her children and grandchildren haven’t learned those bad words from her, and will not continue to use them.  However, I hope her missteps are a lesson to folks.  Hateful language is just that, hateful, and calling folks any sort of disparaging names, can sometimes come back to bite you in the butt.  Paula, I accept your tearful a-Paula-gees (hee hee), but just do better next time, Granny, and I’m sure Wal-Mart will take you back.


NRR (Not running related), but there are good people in this world.

Number 1, Lancer Armstrong is starting to smell a little funky from me running, and then getting directly into my car.  I desperately need one of those like poop guards you put on your seats to sop up all the run sweat that’s started to accumulate on my seats since I’ve been home.  Usually, in Raleigh, I just run, and run straight into the shower.  Here, since my parents live a little further out, I usually have to drive, and that’s creating a stinky sitch in my car.  Your recommendations are welcome, it’s starting to get gross.

So I was heading home from the Titanic Y today, and it’d rained a a ton.  As I was heading down the two-lane home, I realized that I was driving directly over a poor little turtle, who looked scared for his life.  So I’m a huge dork, and I whipped my car around, all the while screaming and crying that nothing better happen to my new friend, the turtle.

As I approached the turtle from the other direction, and flicked on the hazards, a women pulled up to my left and stopped.

A couple pulled behind me, and blocked any traffic from coming up behind us.

And together, the four of us made sure the turtle got off the road safely.

Warmed my dorky heart.  There are still good people in this world.

I have a wicked sense of humor.

Like.  I’m not mean.  But I just laugh at people a lot.  (And this is not health or running related, except that laughing is probably 90% of the reason I stay as sexy as I do.)

I’m completely aware this isn’t running related, but just roll with me here.  Let’s chat.

Can I tell you what makes me laugh?  And what I’m sorta obsessed with?  Olivia Newton-John.  And not just Grease-type Olivia Newton-John.  Not just “Let’s Get Physical” Liv.  I’m talking Patrick McDermott Liv.

I’m not sure why this delights me so much, I’m sure Olivia doesn’t find this funny.  Or maybe she does now.  I’m sorry Olivia for laughing at your misfortune.  But consider yourself to have dodged a bullet.  Beyonce has written a great single about it.

But Patrick McDermott was Olivia’s boothang for like a million years.


Good-looking couple, no? So Patrick goes bankrupt. And here’s how he decides to handle his issue, instead of dealing with it like a normal person, he goes on a fishing trip, fakes his own death (unbeknownst to his grieving leading lady), and starts living a new life in Mexico. Okay. So here’s where it gets really really good. So they put Olivia on Oprah. This story is featured on America’s Most Wanted, which used to randomly be one of my favorite Saturday night pastimes (I’m a weirdo, so arrest me). The way he’s found is is this.

They set up a website called like “Find Patrick McDermott” or something, and start logging all the IP addresses of the people who are visiting the site. This guy is so obsessed with himself that he has been checking the site so often from his computer in Mexico that they’re able to figure out exactly where he is.  It gets even better.  (And I’m crying now with laughter, not laughing at Olivia’s misfortune, but at this guy’s blatant narcissism).  He sends a fax saying he’s fine and he wants to be left alone.  You hate being with your woman so much, you sent a fax?

Sometimes when I get sad, and a little down, I just Google Patrick McDermott and realize that if all else fails, evidently, you can escape your problems by being a total jerk, faking your own death, and then monitoring your website from your new secret locale.  Priceless.

I was raised correctly.

Years and years ago, my parents were moving to a larger house in the little town of Weddington, NC, just outside of Charlotte.  The house was big and beautiful, and the perfect size for all six of us.  The movers worked until the late hours of the evening, without stopping for food or water.  Debbie, the sister who’s 2 years my junior, was walking through the house, exploring the new digs, and stumbled upon one of the workers, hunched over and slurping water straight from the master bathroom sink.  He clearly was beyond thirsty, and terrified that he was going to get in some sort of trouble, because as soon as Debbie spotted him, he quickly straightened up with a nervous look.  She told me, big sis, who went immediately to tell my dad.  And my father did something that stuck with me to this day.  He got in his car, found a gas station (which wasn’t super easy since we weren’t familiar with the area), and purchased Gatorade for every last one of the movers, and asked them to please sit down and take a break to enjoy it when he returned.  My parents, and especially my dad, is brilliant, and does well for us, but has never treated anyone, especially someone who’s worked for us, with anything less than the respect you’d give the Queen of England.

Read this: http://www.nypost.com/p/news/opinion/opedcolumnists/you_got_served_J0xciA8V4GfJ55VsILSGxL

I was so outraged, I had to send this gentleman a respectfully disagreeing email.  Enjoy.  And feel free to let him know how you feel.  Kyle.Smith@NYPost.com

Letter to Kyle
My Letter To Kyle – Click to Read!