Indeed.

::

Today my coworker and good friend, the only other female that I work with, asked if my boobs had gotten bigger. Yup, I replied, along with everything else on my body. I've gained a few pounds. She asked if I was going to end up freaking out like the last time I had decided to give up dieting, and I said that nope, this was it. If being a size 10 means getting to have a grilled cheese sandwich with specialty cheese and real butter for dinner, along with a glass of wine (or three), then it's totally worth it. I told her I couldn't go back. It's not that I just don't WANT to go back; I am simply physically incapable of dieting ever again. I have used up all my dieting willpower in this lifetime. I've eaten more than my fair share of cottage cheese and whey protein powder, pushed myself through excruciating and unenjoyable cardio sessions and just said NO to my favorite foods fifteen too many times. I AM DONE. I'm quite surprised, actually. Usually by this point, at the point where my pants are tight and I think the world is about to end because I've gone up a size, I decide that dieting is the ONLY way to live and I proceed to plan out my next one. Not this time. I think the difference between all those other times and this one is that this time I am truly, truly allowing myself to have whatever the hell I want when I am hungry. Before it was more like well, ok, have some cookies, but no ice cream! Think of the fat and the calories! You'll be a whale by dinnertime! Non-dieting only works when you give yourself full permission to eat whatever your heart desires. This is a struggle every single day, as I am armed (cursed?) with an internal calorie and nutrition calculator that automatically recites the macro nutrient percentages for any given food. What do you expect after nearly 20 years of dieting? It's hard to silence that voice but I'm doing my best. If I eat a salad when I really want a slice of pizza, chances are that I will eat the salad and then eventually have the pizza, too. What if I had just started with the freaking pizza? I would have probably been totally satisfied from the beginning and moved on with my day, with my life. Gone are the days when I putter around the kitchen looking for something more, because I didn't really give myself what I wanted from the start. This is not easy, it's honestly taking some real effort. I'm also constantly having to separate self-worth from clothing size and weight, which is totally INSANE, but I've been living this way for ages, so it's no surprise. Thinking that my career/love life/friendships will be THAT MUCH BETTER when I'm 10 pounds lighter/2 sizes smaller is fucking nuts. When did this start? HOW CAN I FUCKING SAVE A FUTURE GENERATION OF WOMEN FROM WASTING A QUARTER OF THEIR LIFE OBSESSING ABOUT THE SIZE OF THEIR ASS? I just don't know. Is it something that every woman must come to terms with/deal with on her own? Maybe. Because I don't think I would have listened to anyone but that sad little voice in my head before now. It took almost 20 years to get it together, and I STILL don't completely have it together... but I AM getting there. Slowly but surely. And I'm enjoying the journey. Anyway, I'm tickled pink that she commented on my boobs. Oh lucious, glorious boobies-o-mine! Where have you been all this time? If it's grilled cheese sandwiches you crave and full-fat dressing, your wish is my command! Pull up a chair and get comfy, because you're here to stay, AT LAST. If you were any bigger I would kiss you. Muah! MUAH! (I SMELL CRAZY!)

(It smells good.) (Like flowers.) (And grilled gouda on whole wheat.)

(With butta.)

::

We went to Texas last weekend and we lost our dog. He escaped from my mom's back yard the first night we were there. I really can't believe it. As much as I complain about that little fucker he was a part of the family. It's so weird to be home without him. There isn't anyone for Ethan to feed crackers to... there isn't someone waiting at the foot of E's highchair ready to snarf down all the crumbs that fall... no one scratching at the door to let them in... it's so strange. I like to pretend that Bogart has met the chihuahua love of his life and is living out his doggie dreams, but the harsh reality is that he is probably dead on the side of the road, or lost and cold and scared out of his mind. We should have taken better care of him. I wish I would have shown him more love. I wish I would have made time for him each day the same way I make time to work out or do puzzles and color with Ethan. Now he's gone and there is nothing I can do. Shame on me, shame on us. He was a great little dog and I miss him in the worst of ways. It's especially hard when Ethan hollers Bogart, oh Bogart, where are you? Fuck. If you see a fat, flea-infested tan chihuahua prancing down the street, tell him to come home asap. Thanks.

::

Today I went shopping for jeans. After an hour and fifteen minutes I found THE PERFECT pair: a stretchy, washed denim from The Gap, slightly flared at the ankle and fitted through the hip and thigh... PERFECT. I am not lying when I tell you that the skies above opened and a light broke through the clouds, angels rejoiced and I was one with the universe. This perfect pair of jeans? A size 10. How do I feel about that? Fucking fantastic. Have you seen my ass in these jeans? Pass me that grilled cheese, please. And a glass of Merlot. I feel fine. Cheers! (But please don't spill your wine on my new jeans.)