Basically, much like my husband, I don't want to do anything that isn't my idea. And if everyone else is doing it, then I certainly won't, on general principle. Yet... I want you to know, dear reader, that I have caved.
I saw a picture.
A picture of me.
A picture that showed just how much I've enjoyed a well-made creme brûlée over the past few years. And how many times.
So, yeah. That picture made me decide that I don't want to be fat. I may have to get older, but I don't have to be fat. And I'm unwilling to be both fat AND old.
The day of my birth is creeping up pretty soon, and as it's an ungodly, awful, number this year, I've made a decree. A life choice. A, dare I say, GOAL.
By my birthday next year (actually, by July, I hope) I will have lost enough weight to put me in that little "healthy weight for your height" category.
Unless someone can come up with a way for me to grow 5 inches, which would totally negate the need for me to lose anything.
Anyone? Anyone? Please?
Fine. So I signed up with Weight Watchers. This will be my third time with these guys. I always lose weight with this program; the last time I got rid of thirty pounds. Since then, I've found them again. Stupid stalker fat.
Anyhow. Healthy eating, treating exercise like a religion, and drinking more water. That's my future. I don't know that I'll ever get to say that I'm THIN - I mean, I've never felt that, not even when I weighed 120 lbs - but I can definitely get into some smaller sizes. And wear sleeveless dresses. And not be a lump at the pool.
Although I have Christina Hendricks' measurements, I'm five inches shorter than she is. SO. Once more into the breach, dear friends.