Bring it on skinny jeans, bring it on!

Every year we all make promises to ourselves, our children and even God that we know we won’t keep. Yes these promises are called New Years Resolutions. Typically they are proclaimed at Christmas dinners and company parties and before we know it, New Years Eve comes, we’re well over served and telling everyone “there is no way in hell I’m going antiquing with my wife!” Even if we do get to the gym 3 time a week and show up for work on time every day, it usually only lasts about a month before we are once again using those excuses we’ve used all our lives to avoid doing those “hard for us but good for us” things.

So this year I took a different approach. I did not make myself or God any promises. I did not tell my friends and co-workers that I plan to be a better neighbor, and didn’t even promise my dog that I would walk her more. Instead, I’ve been partying as if I were still in college, eating dough nuts smothered in chocolate sauce, showing up late for work and taking 2 hour lunches and finding whatever way I can to get around burning any calories. Alright, I lied, it’s not really that bad but I did not make any resolutions to be more honest so there you go. Follow my thought process here, I’m very, very single, cute (or at least funny) and young so the time to buckle down is years in the future. Have as much fun now as my body allows before my body doesn’t even allow me to bend over.

But to give a bit of back story here, only just three short years ago I was a size 6 (or maybe 8) but the point being that I was thin and I looked great. Then, I became an “other”, you know “significant other.” We ate out, we ate in, and I ate to suppress my growing anger and desire to flee. Until finally I was the girl that everyone sent their fat clothes to. I battled for about a year with diets, exercise… starvation but nothing really worked and eventually I gave up and just convinced myself that the flub is womanly.

That was until a few events unfolded shortly after the New Year that not only made me recommit to my weight loss goals, but actually got me to make a PROMISE that I would fit into my sexy butt jeans by July. First I started working on a slideshow for my dad’s 65th birthday. You know the kind with the sappy music and the close ups of baby pictures. While sifting through nearly 8 totes of family photos (before the digital age folks) I came upon pictures of myself when I was hot to trot size. You know mid-drift shirts and cut-off shorts. Those were the days when I could still fit into junior sizes even though I had both feet over the line into adulthood.

After spending a few days dreaming about those black velvet Ann Taylor size five PETIT pants I once wore, I got a call from my long since ex boyfriend who invited me out to join a group for drinks and frolicking around town. One would think that being in the overweight state that I am (I calculated my BMI and it in fact said overweight. I’m only three tenths of a point away from being obese according to that cruel calculator) seeing my ex, or anyone from my skinny past, would be less fun that shutting my hand in a door. BUT, this was not the first time I had seen him since my lean thighs turned french fries. Plus, he’s put on some poundage as well so I was in a semi comfort zone. That was until I arrived at the club (popped collar and Uggs only please) and started being introduced to the group as “the ex fiancé.” Which of course made me assume they were all thinking “oh he dumped her because she got fat.” Not that bad you’re thinking, right? What pushed me over the edge (and by edge I mean into the uncountable bottles of beer I consumed that night) was when I came face to face with the New Girlfriend. This was not just your typical ex-other’s nightmare, oh no. The new other was HOT. Yes, size 3, size 44 C (at least), and 6 feet tall with legs that started at her neck (did I mention that I’m only 5’2??). So there I am, the first impression I’m giving to all of my new found friends “Hello, I’m the over weight ex fiancé, yep as you can see he traded up.” And the icing on my big fat chocolate cake is that those “new found friends” were all people I went to high school with. One of them being a guy who was once my chubby, awkward friend from history class who is now the fantasy worthy lead singing in a surprisingly good rock band. So what is a girl to do in a suicide inducing situation such as this? Warm up to her buddy Sam Adams and get exceptionally intoxicated so as to black out the humiliating event of course. And then probably say and do a few things she’ll be embarrassed about in the morning after the headache and nausea wears off. All in the name of therapy right?

Now that I’ve sobered up and convinced myself that everyone else was just as over served as I was and can’t possibly remember me making a fool of myself, I’ve planted a scale right in front of my refrigerator and hung my bathing suit over the cabinets as a reminder to STAY AWAY FROM THE COOKIES. I’ve vowed to have a Jennifer Aniston on the cover of GQ kind of body come beach weather (I read some where that setting unrealistic goals for yourself actually helps you succeed). So the next time I unsuspectingly run into an ex-other or people I used to know, and can’t remember their names but they know mine, I’ll be the one they’re talking about when they say “wow, she got HOT!”