It’s times like these that I know how American I really am. Sure, I may feel like a foreigner in a strange land living in an uber Amercian cowboy town in the mountains where everyone knows the lyrics to Toby Keith songs but me, where to vote Democrat might seem an act of treason, (which means I’m really under cover as a Green).

But nothing makes me feel more like an American like feeling it’s some sort of affront to my character to wait in a line or worse–not have the gratification of an instantly perfect body through um work instead of by knife. Waiting sucks and I’m impatient. Intellectually, 4 pounds gone sounds amazing but it’s so far away from the goal that I can’t see it. I stand in front of mirror. Where did it go and why didn’t it take more with it when it went? Yes, it’s the first week. Yes, I could have not had that second vodka tonic. But still, I’m an American, damn it. Body, do what I say.