Over the weekend my favorite pair of jeans tore. True, they were old, but I blame the girth of my thigh for this damage. They tore right beneath my right cheek which would be very fashionable were this the 90s but methinks that style went the way of the Dodo. Unless of course you are Bret Michaels or one of his Rock of Love girls. I'm not really going to turn this into a self-loathing post about how fat I am and how much I despise my reflection because that's not the case. Frankly I'm not a ten, not yet a twelve (sing it like Britney Spears "I'm not a girl, not yet a woman" and it's funnier). I eat what I want to eat, when I want to eat it. I enjoy the finer things in life like Halloween candy and Fat Tire beer. I live for chicken wings dripping in blue cheese dressing. Hot dogs? Yes, please! Cheese in any form? Of course! Exercise is not even happening and I'd be fooling you if I told you I was exerting any effort to make that happen. So today, rather than squeezing into my jeans like I do nearly every day for work, I have decided to give in and rock the size twelve slacks I bought for London in January, dieted out of and have now returned to. My stomach, she is free. And frankly I look fine. I could just do better. And since the good doctor told me last Friday that I have high cholesterol, I probably should do better. Until then? It's all about single serving Reese's Peanut Butter Cups by the handful.
This post was brought to you by the number 12 and the letter F.