A few years back I lost a lot of weight. I did it this way: eat less, eat less junk, work out a lot. A lot lot. It worked really well and I got used to being on the thin side and eventually I started eating a bit more and nothing happened. Then I ate a bit more and nothing happened. Then I sort of lost my mind and, whomp, pounds attached themselves to my ass. It's not much weight but it's enough to annoy me, especially when my clothes stopped fitting so well. That's a hard lesson, my friends. I recently tried on a cute little black shift dress that used to hang off me just so and it now clings in a way that reminds me of Mariah Carey's entire wardrobe. (For some reason she likes to wear dresses meant for someone a size or two smaller and I don't want to be that girl.)
On Sunday I had to run out and I tried to throw on a pair of jeans. I was still in the middle of the throwing/hoisting part when Kenny walked in and raised his eyebrows.
"Honey...what are you doing?"
"My jeans! They don't fit!"
"Wow...they are a little snug."
WRONG ANSWER. I think I might have told him to shut up before slamming the door in his face. That wasn't nice and it's not his fault that I had spinach dip, cake and fried chicken for dinner Friday night. In that order. (I was at a party! Normally I would save the cake for last.) Anyway, I am turning over a new leaf and going back to Downersville where sandwiches lack cheese and a glass of wine is actually a singular thing, not a long drawn out process of topping off. I weep.