Restaurant manager training can run havoc on a girl’s figure, even if that girl happens to be a dude built like a retired linebacker.  I knew going in that six weeks of systematically tasting every little bit of deep-fried and butter-bathed goodness on the menu was not going to do much for my waistline, but not until feeling my belt pinch while watching television on a day off halfway through did I realize how bad things might get.

In the spirit of being a good trooper I refused to weigh myself until my training was through; until tonight when I made my triumphant return to the gym to confront the carnage of having had to go UP a belt notch for the sake of my professional development.

+11lbs–SH!!!!!!!!!!!!T

So why am I so sensitive?

The first weekend after moving to Colorado Springs after my promotion to General Manager of the local Hooters (allow me to allow you a few moments to snicker…That never really gets old, does it?   Let us continue), two gentlemen were trashed at my bar in the middle of the afternoon.  As his companion basically sat comatose with his face nestled comfortably into my bartop, his buddy tried to order another round of shots from my bartender.  I stepped in and politely informed the personal hygienically-challenged patron that we would be unable to serve him another drink but would be happy to serve him a 20 piece with hopes that he choke on a chicken wing while the hot sauce melted a hole in his throat- I worded it a bit different, but you get the point.

It may have started innocently enough, but dude turned angry QUICK!

Anyways, needless to say said patron go a bit upset, shot off his stool sending it bouncing backwards off the floor, and started some kind of long tequila-induced spanish-voodoo curse that ended with the only words that I understood:

“I WILL DRAG YOU OUT INTO THAT PARKING LOT AND KICK YOUR FAT FUCKING ASS!!!”

Dude continued to loose his mind, and eventually with the aid of mall security my cooks, I was able to get him out the door with no harm done.  Except to my psyche, of course…all I could think about, all I kept hearing in my head, was not the threats of this guy even as he was escorted out in an arm-bar, but the fact he called me F-A-T!

Well, that was the motivation that I needed, and a few months and 50lbs later I was finally back to repectibility (and could run a mile without needing to stop and vomit  after 2 minutes).  And I suppose I have the tequila-sweating, spanish-voodoo drunk guy to thank for helping me get there.  In fact, if anyone knows where I might find him, let him know i still got a 20 piece with his name on them.

Oh, I still got his chicken, alright

Now if you will excuse me, I have to get to bed.  I have an early-morning spin class to get to.