So a couple of weeks ago I was planning out my meals for the week and thinking about how crazy it is, my lack of obsession. I felt pretty good working out 4 days a week, planning my meals for the day and not stressing too much about dinners, about having a glass or two (or three) of wine and not calculating every single sip. I felt ok. I liked not obsessing.
And then last night I had to step into a fitting room.
DUDE. I AM NOT OK.
Last March is when I also realized that I was NOT OK and started working out like a fucking fiend, dieting to all hell (Including eliminating pretty much all alcohol, fuck me) and just generally being obsessed. While that part doesn’t sound so appealing, guess what? On my birthday in May I wore THE JEANS out for my birthday dinner. I also purchased a teeny little bikini and I rocked the fuck out of it.
I like rocking the fuck out of it.
And while the dieting and the working out like a fiend (and the NOT DRINKING WINE) don’t sound so great, you know what sounds worse? Cellulite on my mother fucking thighs, that’s what. I am NOT going to Palm Springs in August with damn cellulite on my thighs.
Right, so here it is, March again. I think my birthday is a reasonable goal date for – well let’s just say that I want to return to that damn fitting room and not leave crying. That’s embarrassing. So there’s a plan.
Ok, first let me say that I hate it when I read someone’s "plan" and they’re all "OH AND I START NEXT WEEK!" because, really?Just start now!
But here’s the thing: the reason for the fitting room fiasco is that I was buying a dress, for a funeral. And tomorrow HP and I get on a plane to go to see his family, until Monday, to mourn the passing but celebrate the life of his grandfather. We’ll be with his father, aunts, uncles, cousins and did I mention their last name starts with an O apostrophe?
There will be drinking.
So fuck it, I’m an asshole, I’m starting on Tuesday.