You know how the Modern Woman is supposed to be all body-positive and embrace her curves and wear a bikini even though her midsection looks like it was mauled by a mountain lion? (Maybe that last one is just me.) Listen, I try to do that, I really do. 95% of the time, I don’t let three numbers on a scale define me. I don’t care about the numbers on the tags in my dresses, either, as long as they fit me nicely and make me feel sassy. Basically, I don’t care about numbers at all, so my life is very much like my junior year of high school when I almost failed pre-calculus.
But then 5% of the time I care about numbers very much, and basically become like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man.

This would also explain my hatred of K-Mart
Not coincidentally, this 5% of time matches up almost exactly to the 5% of time that I bother to weigh myself. I generally try to steer clear of the scale as much as I can, because as long as I know that I once weighed 135 pounds eight years ago, I can assume that that hasn’t changed. Logic!
Unfortunately, I made the mistake of weighing myself last night– which you’re never supposed to do, anyway, because by the end of the day you are basically just a walking sack of fatty bloatasticness that somehow magically fixes itself while you’re sleeping– and discovered that in order to reach my goal weight, I will have to literally just stop eating until August 2018.
This, of course, is not feasible, because I have no self-control, so any attempt at a fast would last only the length of time it took me to use my superhuman chocolate-seeking powers to locate the nearest source of free candy on someone’s desk. So instead I need to work on developing a healthier relationship with food– salad and I are good friends, but I’m in a very abusive relationship with pizza– and then I have to do the unthinkable.
I have to exercise.

Photographic representation of my feelings on exercise.
I am fully indoctrinated in the Cult of Fitbit (I HAVE WALKED OVER 4200 MILES SINCE 2013 AND I WANT YOU TO KNOW ABOUT IT!!!), but I’m starting to think that’s not enough. I may actually have to do something that involves sweating, and there is almost nothing I hate more than sweating (maybe kitten murder– maybe). And as someone who managed to live her entire life without participating in a single sport since a season of pre-K t-ball and whose gym teacher once open mocked the way she ran, I can promise you that I am not cut out to be a person who exercises “for fun”. I refuse to accept that it can be fun, and when you attempt to persuade me otherwise, all I hear is “HEY! COME SWEAT SO HARD THAT YOUR UNDERBOOBS BECOME A LUSH AND VERDANT RAIN FOREST, AND THEN GASP MANIACALLY FOR AIR WHILE WORKING YOUR LIMBS SO HARD THAT YOU FEEL LIKE YOU GOT HIT BY A TRAIN!”
So I’ll do it if I have to, but I expect some sort of award ceremony afterward. With cake. There has to be cake.
Love this, and it’s EXACTLY how I’m feeling right now. Just moved to FL, land of bathing suits. Our new neighborhood has a gym. I’m psyching myself up but buying flattering gym clothing.
LikeLiked by 1 person