Fatty Confidential: 2012

Remember the time, for the past 49 years, that my New Year's Resolution was "Lose Weight"?  

Yeah... I'm not doing that this year.

At first I was all, "Screw it... I'll resolve to gain 20 lbs instead.  That way I'll either be wildly successful at keeping my New Year's Resolution or else I'll be ecstatic if I DON'T keep it.  Win win, am I right?"

(Because I'm always thinking, you guys.  Always.  Also?  I'm usually right.  Don't hate... it's not something I can control.)

Then I was all, "I knowwww!  I'll eat right and work out and focus on health instead of weight loss!!"

Fuck you, someecards.  Fuck you real hard.

But then I burst out laughing at myself because really, who am I kidding?

Eating right is actually not a problem for me because I know how to do it.  I can eat right like it's my JOB.  And I would totally do it if I were paid to.  

Working out, on the other hand?

No.

I know it's good for me.  I know it's what grown-ups do, whether they want to or not.  It's something people do to stay healthy, look good, live forever, never die, and post regularly on Facebook.  And trust me when I say I would LOOOVE to be able to post "Dani is at Bust Your Ass Gym working out like a rock star and showing off her six-pack abs."

(In fact, maybe I'll do it anyway, just so I can hang with the cool kids.)

I'd say you were lying, dude.  I'm pretty sure that's never happened before.

Here's the thing:  I don't like getting sweaty.  I hate it when my hair gets limp and damp and I have to re-do it.  I don't like lifting heavy things.  I don't do running, unless something big and dangerous is chasing me.  (And even then I probably wouldn't run... I'd stand there and be like, "Ummm... I'm not running, so you might as well stop chasing me."  And then I'd mace the crap out of them.  BOO-YAH.)  I hate getting out of breath, hate it when my heart rate is elevated, hate being around other people who are sweating...

Point being, if I made a resolution to work out, I wouldn't do it.  You know it, I know it, the New Year's Resolution committee knows it...

Sigh.

I put the last two Good n Plentys in my mouth, washed them down with the last of my coffee, and then...

a light bulb went on over my dim sugar and caffeine filled head.

It was so bright it almost blinded me.

I know, I thought... I will resolve to eat like a grown up at least 80% of the time.  Or 75%, whichever works.  50% would be an improvement.  

I looked back over the month of December and cataloged most of my meal choices.

Breakfast, almost without fail, consisted of two cups of coffee and a handful of Good n Plentys.  

On the days I didn't go eat lunch with my husband, my lunch was Light Buttered Microwave Popcorn and Diet Pepsi.

On the days I DID go eat lunch with him, french fries were usually involved.

Dinner?

Dear Lord, don't get me started on dinner.

5 nights out of 7 I noshed on a wheel of Brie and crackers.  I'm pretty sure the only vegetables I ate appeared in the form of Spinach and Artichoke Dip.  (I have the best.recipe.EVER for that.  Actually, it's not a recipe... just something I throw together that involves a buttload of Brie, sour cream, pepperjack cheese, cream cheese, and spinach and marinated artichoke hearts.  It's to friggin' DIE FOR.  Literally, if you eat enough of it.)

In my defense, I was sick the entire month and that isn't my typical dinner menu, though breakfast and lunch have remained pretty consistent for 10 years or so.  

(Don't judge.)

(Okay, go ahead and judge.  I'd totally judge you if that was YOUR menu for 10 years.)

Maybe I'll start out slow, like Eating Like A Grown Up At Dinner Time.

Because I can totally do that.

Then I'll move on to lunch, after I totally master dinner.

I'll tackle breakfast last, because I'm fragile in the morning.  And vulnerable.  

And lazy.  

(I remember when my son Brennan was around 5, he stayed the night at a friend's house and apparently waxed eloquent over the pancakes, eggs, and bacon he was served for breakfast.  He carried on for so long about how wonderful breakfast was that the mom asked him, "So what does your mommy make for breakfast?"  Brennan thought long and hard for a minute or so and then answered, "My mommy makes coffee."  Mother Of The Year, that was me.  Winning!!)

(I'm sorry, boys, that I made coffee for breakfast and forced you to eat Pop Tarts and cold, leftover pizza.  And once I made you eat ice cream for breakfast, because I ran out of cereal and pizza and Pop Tarts, and I figured "Ice cream has milk... that's healthy."  I suck.)

I also totally lost my train of thought.

Screw you, New Year's Resolutions.

Here's what I'm going to do:

I'm going to pretend that January 1st is just another day.

Which it is.

I'm going to slap myself around a little and stop eating like a 5 year old left to their own devices and eat like the intelligent, health-conscious woman that I actually am.  (Remember Macaulay Culkin in the hotel scene in Home Alone 2:  Lost In New York?  Where he's ordering ice cream and candy and pretty much nothing but crap on a stick and then winds up with a room service bill of  $967?  That's what it looks like in my head when I'm gazing longingly into the fridge and trying to come up with something to eat.)

  

Anyway, back to me being an intelligent, health-conscious woman...

I'm 50 years old and it's time.  Not because it's a new year, not because the date will magically change tomorrow morning from 2012 to 2013, not because at midnight tonight people all over the globe will resolve to put out their last cigarette and take their last drink and eat their last burger, but because I know I need to do it and I literally have no excuse not to.

I'm pretty sure that no one on their death bed said, "Gee... I wish I hadn't been so healthy."

(Unless, of course, I die tomorrow... in which case I'd be all, "I'm glad I had Good n Plentys for breakfast yesterday morning.")

Since I don't know when I'm going to die or from what, I guess I'd better pull my head out of my ass and stop eating like it's my last day on earth.

Dear New Year's Resolution Committee,

I'd like to apologize in advance for not making any resolutions this year.  I'll be back next year.

Love,

Dani

Happy New Year, my loves!  Stay safe, be happy.

The One Where I'm Almost 50

In case you were wondering, I'm still alive.  For now.  

I've just been really preoccupied with the fact that in just nine short days, I will be half. a century. old.

Half a century.

50.  

50.

That's, like, way the hell older than I ever thought I'd be.  

Even last year when I turned 49, it never occurred to me that I'd be turning 50 on my next birthday. I mean, it would be the logical conclusion... As a reasonably intelligent woman who can count past 49, I did know that the next number would be 50.  I've counted to 50 before.  Also, in the past, my birthdays have come in chronological order, so it's not like it would be reasonable to assume that this one wouldn't...

I joked about it and stuff, making references to the fact that I'd be dead soon because I'm going to be so flippin' old on my birthday, but it's not like I actually believed it.

God wouldn't do that to me... would He?

I'm his favorite.

Consequently, I feel like I need more time to get used to the idea.  Like, maybe 10 more years or so.  I didn't have enough warning.  I'm not prepared.  I have so much shit to do before I'm ready to turn 50.  

Like, have a face lift.

Like, not turn 50.

Okay, this might come as a shock to you but I may or may not be a little vain.  Not obnoxiously vain, like I'm always worried about how I look... More like, vain in the sense that I take it for granted that I look youthful and in no way, shape, or form anywhere close to 50.

I'm beginning to think that my mirror is a lying ASS.

Not that long ago (like, two months ago, even) when people would hear I had children in their 20s, they would gasp in shock and say, "No way!!  You can't be old enough to have kids in their 20s!"

Recently (and I can't even begin to tell you how much it pains me to even write this down because it may have possibly been the worst moment of my life) I was talking to someone and mentioned that I had three sons.  The person asked their ages and I responded, "26, 24 and 23."

There was no gasp.

There was no look of surprise.

There was no utterance of amazement that such a fresh young thing such as myself could have children almost as old as I am.

Instead, this happened:

"Oh, how nice!  Do you have any grandchildren?"

*blink*

*blink*

Grandchildren?

Grandchildren??  Excuse me while I eat my own face and ponder how you could possibly believe I was old enough for grandchildren...

(It's slightly possible that I looked over my shoulder at this point to see if they were talking to someone else... Someone much, much older than I am.  They weren't.)

I started getting philosophical and nostalgic one night last weekend (alcohol may have been involved) and was musing about all the amazing things that have happened in my lifetime.  

I said things like, "The world is a completely different place than it was 50 years ago.  Man walked on the moon..."

*long pause*

*embarrassingly long pause*

I couldn't think of anything else.

Because I'm old as fuck and becoming senile.

This is the only thing that happened in the past 50 years, according to my brain.

Anyway, so while my brain is having difficulty believing that I am, indeed, at the very least middle-aged, my body is having no problem believing it at all.

My body is like, "Oh, praise Jesus... we can finally take this Spanx off and officially fall apart."

Gray hair began growing from my hairline so fast that overnight, I went from looking like a woman with shiny brunette locks to Pepe LePew.

Hairs started leaping from my chin in a single bound, sprouting up to three inches in just a matter of hours.  (Possibly even minutes.)  

I began waking up every night sweating like a pig.

And without warning, the hot flashes arrived.

And in less than one week's time, I grew a second chin and my boobs hit the floor.  

Then I developed a slight tic in my left eye.

And I started my period.

"WHAT THE FUUUUCK???" I screamed at a box of tampons, "WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SHIT??? I CANNOT HAVE A BEARD, A MUSTACHE, GRAY HAIR, SAGGING TITS, HOT FLASHES, NIGHT SWEATS, AND MY PERIOD!!! "

Oddly enough, the tampons didn't answer.

(Karma, however, came through like a champ and delivered unto me a zit on my right cheek.)

Behold and rejoice:  FUCK YOU, MOTHER NATURE.

(I'm especially looking forward to the part where my teeth loosen and my gums recede.  Can I get that first, please?)

Dear 50,

I can't fucking wait.

Love,

Dani

So yeah... long story short, if you want to send me something for my birthday, this is all I want: