Friday, January 6, 2012

New Years Resolutions are SHITTY.

As I am sure is true with most women, the amount of junk, sugar and wine that I consume in any given week is directly proportionate to the amount of elastic in my pants. Usually a one day bender results in yoga pants. A weekend bender may result in leggings. A week results in my husbands sweatpants.

To say that I am at the "pretty-soon-I-won't-fit-into-a-Hefty-bag" stage is like saying a baby won't piss all over himself the minute you put him in a tub of clean water.

I haven't gained any weight, but I am pretty sure it's because the fat has sucked all of the muscle out of me.

But my body feels every Skittle, Lemonhead, Tootsie Roll, and glass of Barefoot Sweet Red I have ingested this week, let me tell you.

So, I am going to be like every other resolution making asshole out there, and say that with the new year will come new goals.

Like wearing pants again. That button.

I know, it's a lofty goal. Call me an overachiever.

Before we moved to our new house this past summer, and before all the weddings, showers, bachelorettes, and holiday parties distracted me, I was a 5-6 day a week work out machine.

Now, lifting the laundry basket is considered my Monday workout.

While I know that I may not get back to a 6 day a week regimen because my kids play every sport under the sun and I have that annoying little thing called a JOB, it is my mission to take a little more time to work out so I feel better.

Because sugar tastes oh-so-yummy going into my tummy, but pretty much sucks ass on the way down.

Further evidence that sugar makes you feel like shit? Last week I spent a whole day on a sugar/carb diet. Tootsie Rolls, hot chocolate ($3.25 at McDonalds? What the what?!?!), sugar cookies, a Kashi granola bar, spaghetti with parmesan cheese and caramel popcorn for dessert were on the menu.

So, needless to say, I was a farting MACHINE. I was the old lady I always get stuck behind at Wal-Mart who shuffle farts in front of me when I have nowhere else to go.

And I would be lying if I said I didn't love a good fart.

It makes me giggle the way your stomach deflates a little everytime you let one rip.

So, anyway...

I was upstairs folding laundry in my new 5" heels (because I like to feel fancy when being forceably domestic) when I felt the rumblies. My brain told me to hold me it in, but my ass jumped the gun and....

You guessed it...

I sharted.

Not awesome.

So, there I was, stripping down naked and running "no mas pantalones" down the hall, hoping my kids stayed glued to the Xbox 360 or YouTube or whatever crack they were addicted to at that moment, so I wouldn't have to explain

a) why mommy was butt ass naked wearing a button down shirt and a face of horror

b) why I was carrying my underwear like they were a nuclear bomb made of shit.

Lesson learned. No more sugar diet. I should have a good 30 or 40 years before I start shitting my pants and forcing my kids to clean me up.

So elliptical machine, yoga mat and Total Gym, get ready, because I am gonna make you my bitch again. And I promise to cut down on the sugar so I don't shit all over you.

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