Camy here, having a fat day.
You know what I’m talking about. You get out the fat jeans and dress all scrubby because your good clothes don’t fit or make you look like a cajun sausage.
I ought to exercise but I don’t want to. I shouldn’t eat those cookies, but I’m so depressed that they’re the only light in my day. I kicked the scale across the bathroom, but only got a broken toe for it.
WHY DO GIRLS HAVE DAYS LIKE THIS???
God, couldn’t you have made me naturally skinny like Audrey Hepburn or Summer Glau (I just saw an episode of Terminator: the Sarah Connor Chronicles) or the skinny-minny girl who lives down the street and walks around eating McDonald’s hamburgers?
Why does my husband lose weight easier than me? How can he just stop eating so much food and magically lose weight? Why don’t I have that kind of self-discipline? Why doesn’t he have chocolate cravings and potato chip cravings and double-shot-quadruple-pump-mochas-with-extra-whipped-cream-cravings?
I hate the fact that I jiggle. I hate the fact my pants are tight. I hate the skinny clothes still hanging in my closet for the magical day I’ll lose the weight I’ve gained in the past few years.
I hate the fact that I care so much about my weight.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, God made me the way I am. No offense, God, but it doesn’t make me feel any better right now.
This too shall pass, this too shall pass. That’s my mantra today. Tomorrow will be a better day. Tomorrow I will have a better attitude than the stinky one I have right now.
I’m going to go eat a truffle.