I have gotten fat.

Disgustingly I Cannot Believe Michael Still Wants To Have Sex With Me Fat.

Not, mind, that it stops ME from wanting to get laid - hardly! I'd say that whole influx of chocolatey goodness mixed in with whatever I have laying around in my makeshift bar puts me right in the mood. And NO, it's not as if he's turned me down, or passed on anything nakedee, it's simply that I am no longer okay watching my oversize spare tire jiggle while I'm on top.

Nor, really, how much the girls just sort of lay there, when I'm on the bottom.

Bottom? Did I say bottom? I have enough for four people these days.

I'd say it's all the damn driving; or maybe, the lack of constructive exercise, the trips through the drive thru that constitute dinner - only seriously? I kid you not....I've been working out, dammit! I eat seafood for dinner, with a side of someone's vegitable garden. I'm overloaded on Holy Fucking Healthiness, along with a kickass workout routine, only I'm finding the spare tire inflating, not deflating.

Therein, my friends, lies the rub. What in the fuck is the point of working out til one is so sweaty being showered with a garden hose would be drier, if one cannot see a difference? I'm not looking for a MAJOR difference right away...but I would like my pants sides to come within yelling distance of each other, or perhaps, be able to locate a hipbone without an xray.

Is it asking too much? Sure, I've turned ..... more than 30. A damn sight less than 40....but when they said my cup runneth over with joy, I don't think they meant the ones attached to the lining of my bra. I'd be psyched to buy new clothes...if the sizes were getting SMALLER. Or perhaps, that I didn't look like an overtall Umpa Loompa.

This whole rant however, has left me rather weak and peckish - and while there are indeed, plenty of green leafy things in the fridge, I think, perhaps, this one time, I"m going to go attack something more substantial.

Like the inside of my kid's easter basket