I was hoping I'd be so awesome by now that I'd magically manage to bypass the whole gaining-a-bunch-of-weight-around-the-holidays thing. Apparently not.
The husband and I celebrated our birthdays this past weekend. We had a lot of fun. And a lot of drinks. And a lot of food. When it's your birthday, calories don't matter. I think I read that somewhere. Anyway, someone forgot to tell my ass that. It is still under the impression that calories DO, in fact, matter. Not only do they matter. They matter a whole lot. Cookies, apparently, are not calorie free just because it's your birthday. Neither are birthday shots or the hangover burritos the next day.
Damn.
So I made a deal with my ass. I said, "Look, ass. I will give you three more days this holiday season. Three days during which I will not scrutinize you or say you look like a bowl of jelly stuffed into a balloon. Three days on which I will not monitor your big-ness. I will allow you to eat whatever you want. Those days are Christmas Eve, Christmas, and New Years Day (for the hangover burritos.) On the other days, I don't want to hear any whining. You will subsist on what I like to call a stranded-on-a-deserted-island diet. Restricted calories. Nothing processed. Nothing refined. Nothing fried. And don't even think of trying to convince me that the plane you were on happened to be a hostess delivery plane. I am smarter than you, ass. I own you. You will obey."
It was a bit of a tough-love talk. But, you know? Sometimes that's what it takes.
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