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GQ's Ren McKnight, with Eric above, is a real, live Mormon; and is therefore the closest approximation to Mitt we can find in the office.

My P90X motivation has fallen on hard times. Daily schedules are built around working out, I'm more exhausted than fitness shaman Paul Ryan must've been after (not) running that marathon in under three hours, and noticeable changes in my physicality have petered out. The worst part is, I have only myself to blame.

I've noted in this column that a major highlight of such an intensive training program is that you can eat like a fourteen year old hitting a growth spurt. It's time to admit to myself that this dietary approach is most definitely working against me. Sure, I can now do 100 pull-ups and 339 ab ercises over the course of a workout; but all of that muscle gain is masked by a stubbornly present layer of blubber, particularly around my midsection, that ain't going away. And this is because I eat like an asshole.

This weekend saw one of my most calorically indulgent days. I'll give a breakdown of what I consumed, but before I do: please don't judge me too harshly. And know that this is atypical – I'm usually not this bad:

**Friday, September 28th

**

8:50p.m.: Double quarter pounder with cheese, large fries, large soda and a chicken sandwich from McDonalds (the soda was diet, promise!)

10:37p.m.: One substantial slice of lemon tart

11:52p.m.: One bowl of Frosted Flakes midwith Fruity Pebbles

**Saturday, September 29th

**

10:25a.m.: Half a pint of tofu and veggie stir-fry leftovers from Szechuan Gourmet, a bowl of Frosted Flakes mid with Fruity Pebbles

2:45p.m.: One six-pack of mini chocolate-covered doughnuts

6:30p.m.: Two glasses of Chardonnay

7:43p.m.: One modified margarita cocktail from the Experimental Cocktail Club

9:05p.m.: A fried chicken sandwich, truffled freedom (née French) fries, kale ceasar salad (shared), avocado crostini (shared), one tall can of Sixpoint Bengal Tiger IPA at Dudley's

10:22p.m.: Two shots of whiskey, two gin and tonics at Local 138

12:00a.m.: One pint of Stella at Lucky Jack's

That adds up to roughly 1,000,000 calories, which is definitely not helping melt the gut away. And while I downed my fair share of booze, an equally big concern is the amount of high fat, high sugary shit I stuffed into my pie hole. If I want to maximize my fitness improvement in the last five weeks of P90X, and maybe get some definition in my midsection, I need to reign in such indulgent ways. Then again, Mr. Ryan probably wouldn't want me to give up frequenting his former employer Micky D's: he's now a stockholder in the company.

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