Tonight we were attending the viewing of the mother-in-law of DH’s father’s sister (got that?).  I got all gussied up like it was a hot date, mostly because my choices were yoga pants and stained graphic tees with sneakers or my sexy leather boots with a knee skirt and cutesy sweater. Earings, necklace, you name it.  Except when I was trying stuff on, like stuff I wore this summer? My adorable light-weight sweaters and skirts?

THEY DID NOT FIT.

As in, I could barely zip up the skirts, pull them over my arse or button a sweater or blouse.  Don’t even get me started on the stockings that I couldn’t get over my thighs.  These were all things that fit me less than three months ago. A year ago, some of them were slightly too big.

And now they are too tight.

Either some gnomes decided to sneak into my house and switch out my clothes as a really bad practical joke or every shrunk in the wash.

I’m going with everything shrunk in the wash. Sounds good, right?

Because the alternative?  The alternative is I stepped on the scale and found out I gained yet another five pounds.  That’s thirty pounds since my anniversary last year.  I’m eating like crap, I’m not getting any sleep, my clothes don’t fit and I am barely getting exercise in again because when I have the choice between sleep or a three-mile jog, GUESS WHICH ONE I PICK, Y’ALL.  Go on, guess.

I can dream about jogging while I am sleeping. When I am jogging, I can’t sleep.  That’s how I justify it.  And now that I’ve written that out, I see how pathetic that justification is, just like when I justify that I need fries for lunch, or need to get SOS for breakfast or need ice cream because it was a bad day and I deserve it.  I am not getting younger.  Thirty pounds in a year.  If I do that again, I will be in the morbidly obese category for my height.  I deserve a healthier me and so does my family.

I’m kicking my arse and taking my own name. Time to get serious.