Whereby my Expanding Waistline is Causing a Resemblence to Jabba the Hutt

I made the fatal error of stepping on the scale a few days ago when I couldn't button my jacket over my ever-burgeoning bustline. Dare I admit what that scale said? 139.8. I'm tipping the scales at nearly 140 pounds. Apparently the horomones are making me do more than grow new gazongas. They are making me grow another CHIN.

I've been hiding from this by purchasing new clothes, which conveniently come in a larger size than the ones residing in my closet. As my shopping has been brought to a screeching halt, and the seasons, they are a'changing, I dragged out my fall clothes. Which DO NOT FIT. I mean, I look like a sausage in the casing. And not the fancy-pants sausage. The crappy Jimmy Dean kind, that may or may not be made of snouts. And toes.

In all reality, all the horrormone does is make me hungry. If I could, say, learn to live with hunger, I would likely be a slightly more svelte version of myself. However, as everyone knows, I'm all about the instant gratification. Which means far more twinkies, ho-hos, ding-dongs and pop-tarts than anyone past the age of 5 should ingest. This coupled with my "office snack radar" means that I've packed on 10 pounds in the last 6 months. Awesome.

For fear of becoming a Hutt, I've decided to embark on a diet. Realizing that I already had dinner plans last night, I figured I'd go out with a bang. After dining at Rasika (HIGHLY recommend) and having 2 gimlets, we stopped by Indebleu where I polished off a Cheeky Monkey and a Creamsicle.

And then proceeded to go home at like 9 PM & pass out. Not consuming any water beforehand. Oh, but somehow, I did find room for a COOKIE on the way home from the metro, because, you know, nothing goes better with the spins then some LARD.

This morning I awaken and feel TERRIBLE. My head, it is the size of a hot-air balloon. No amount of coffee or motrin can stave off the agony. Looks like my plan worked, for I never want to touch the fire-water again. Or banana now & laters, since that's what my last beverage tasted like.

Now if I only I could find a similar way to get me off the pop-tarts. Any suggestions?

Also, please come to my office & confiscate my change. And tie me to my desk, so I can't cruise the office searching for birthday parties to crash.

And please, avert your eyes when gazing upon my babushka arms. I now know why all those russian old ladies look that way. SWEDISH FISH. The bane of babushkas everywhere.