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.
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.
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.