I am trying to lose weight during the holiday season. This may just be the stupidest idea anyone’s ever had in the history of ideas, and I’m not THAT prone to hyperbole (only one in every five or six statements). I am THAT prone to sarcasm, however, so take from that what you will.
My reason for wanting to lose weight is so I can indulge myself in Christmas festivities and only gain back what I lost. I also want to return home to my East Coast family all heeeeeeey, check me out, I haven’t let myself go yet! A nice theory, except I won’t be home until December 23. Between now and then I will have attended four Christmas parties and a children’s birthday party (where you know there’ll be cake, which usually isn’t a big deal for me as I’m not into cake, but now I can’t have it so my brain is all CAKE CAKE CAKE CAKE). Also these parties sort of fall under the category of “indulge myself in Christmas festivities” so I’m trapped by my own failed logic.
My workplace is of no help. Every damn day there’s a spread. (Italians are suckers for a spread.) Cookies and marshmallows and chocolates and crackers and cheese and bread and olives all laid out just so over a festive Christmas tablecloth. Why’d you have to put down a tablecloth, office? Now you know I can’t resist that shit! When it’s on a regular surface, I might be able to walk by. But on a red-and-green plaid tablecloth THAT IS ALSO SPARKLY?! You’re killing me!
There is now less than a week until Christmas, but I just can’t quit you, diet. I know that at this point it’s a lost cause and I just should happily NOM NOM NOM my way through the holidays, eyes glazed, tummy happy, but there’s just one problem: clothes. I have exactly three sweaters that are holdovers from 2006 when I still lived in cold weather climates, and they are all small and unforgiving of holiday belly bulge. I’ve also got exactly two pairs of pants that fit me that aren’t leggings. It’s cold as shit back east, so I need to rinse, recycle, and reuse those puppies until (fingers crossed) new holiday clothes magically appear under the tree? If not, then sorry to everyone who must suffer the same three ill-fitting outfits over and over every time I come home to visit for Christmas.
You know what, though? Olives and cheese trump comfort or fashion. So apologies, dear family, for the not-so-discreet loosening of the buttons that will inevitably take place during Christmas dinner. It’s either that or I wear my stretchy pants.