I broke down and shelled out $3 for the Couch to 5 K app for my phone.

It takes me less than 1/2 a second to decide on buying a dozen mini cupcakes, but it took me about 6 months to finally justify spending 3 dollars on an exercise app.

I’ll succeed in finishing off the cupcakes, but I may fail at actually using the exercise app.

I know. Crazy town.

I quit soda in December thinking I’d instantly drop a few hundred pounds. Didn’t happen.

Apparently I have to actually get up and do more than walk to the toilet to equal actual exercise.

That’s just stupid.

Exercise is hard. And it’s hot outside. And I don’t like the hot. It makes sweat. And sweat is stupid.

It takes too many steps to turn on the Wii Fit Plus.

THAT is a sign of fucking lazy.

I’ve told you before that I take lazy to a whole other level. Now do you believe me?

But now I guess being fat is stupid. And that’s just dumb.

________________________________________

Pee Pee Ess: I lied.

I’ve admitted before, I have lovely lady lumps and I don’t mean my boobies. I mean the cheesy lumps on my arse and my thighs. Being that I am a plumpalicious girl, I am standing up and protecting my fellow larger ladies and the rest of the world.

How? By calling a moratorium on shorts that are wider than they are long.

Unless you are in the top .01% of the ladies in the U.S., YOUR SHORTS SHOULD BE LONGER THAN THEY ARE WIDE. If this ratio is on the negative side, DON’T SQUEEZE YOUR FAT ASS INTO THE SHORTS.

Just because some clothing store makes the clothes and you can pull up the screaming zipper, DO NOT buy the shorts.

Oh, Sweet Baby Jeebus and Oprah. Here is my evidence from Old Navy*:

Allowing Old Navy (and others) to sell shorts at a 4 1/2″ inseam in a size 6 or up should be criminal. Allowing us larger ladies think it is OK to leave the house, much less purchase, any shorts less than a 5″ inseam (and still you gotsta have some NICE legs to pull those off) is a travesty.

And who are they joking with this picture of the shorts with a space between the legs? No woman who is a size 14 or up has any space between her thighs. You nasty nasty marketing picture-taking people are trying to make us think that those shorts (with pleats BTW) will allow our crotches to breathe.

Sorry, ladies, but wearing these shorts will only allow your ass to have a snack on some denim.

So, please. For the love of Sweet Baby Jeebus and Oprah. Stand UP and show your lovely legs! Just wear your shorts a little longer.

________________________________________________________________

*Originally published March 30, 2008 but still ever-so-awesome.

Most people have a “most regrettable moment.”

Not me.

Except for all those times I used a credit card when I should have, said something really dumb, or said yes when I should have said no.

But specifically, that ONE regrettable moment?

Is an entire year.

I have a year of regret.

An entire year that has made me fat who I am today.

How, pray tel, does a year make me fat who I am today?

Let me be more cryptic specific.

The year after I graduated high school and before I met Patrick was a very exploratory year, and not the kind of exploration that required spelunking gear. Though it totally could have.

I wasn’t, we’ll say, focused on my school work. I was still living at home going to the local community college, but I really wasn’t home much. At 18, I was so friggin smart! and free! and a girl! and I was cute! and I had a job!

and I was HOT!

Oh, damns was I the shit. Long blond curly hair, size 28 men’s jeans shorts (they were cool back then), weighed 123 pounds cause when you weigh 123 pounds once you remember, had a cool new tattoo, and then another.

I was pretty much the one that brought all the boys to yard.

And they came for me.

I think a small part of me knew this, but a more conscious part of me just wanted the attention. That part of me ruled the rest of me. I was wanted.

Kind of like how I want freshly baked brownies right now.

Which brings me back to how that year made me fat today.

I met Patrick when we were both 18. We immediately stuck to each other and never let go. He loved me like no other guy had ever loved me. He respected me, he doted on me, he listened to me.

He didn’t want to let me go.

So I stayed. Thankfully.

He made me feel wanted. Special. Needed.

But I still noticed all the other boys in the yard. And they still noticed me.

To keep Patrick and to keep myself sane and to keep myself from making the other guys notice me, I subconsciously made myself fat.

Now, at 33, a mom, a wife, a woman. I’m not noticed. My husband loves me, I know this.

But subconsciously, I don’t want to be noticed because then, THEN, I might want them to be noticed.

Nobody notices a fat, 33 year old, mom, wife.

And, like that carton of milk in the back of my fridge with the expiration date of Sept 08, I just recently realized this.

Spoiled milk can become cheese, right? I’m pretty much the cheese.

mmmmm… cheese…