I’m really really good at some things, but I suck at sticking to diets. I’ve started on diets so many times, announced my new beginning to friends, and convinced myself that I was on my way to a to new fat ass-free destiny. I’m done with my big ole ass, done with my chubby belly. Those super cute jeans that have been in the bottom drawer for the last six or so years were about the caress some fine looking size 10 flesh again. But within a week, I forget. Just forget. Well, not totally forget, but I get back to putting any delicious things into my mouth that comes my way, any memory of my newbirthed conviction. And in my world, there's always something delicious around. I’ve cultivated a community of food and wine loving peeps, so this will always be true – wherever I go, deliciousness abounds.So now, I feel kind of stupid saying that I’m starting again, that I’m going to change my horrible habits, stay the course and whittle myself a hot bod and some mean getaway sticks. And that’s why I’m not telling anyone. In fact, although I plan to show you the ugly truth of my before situation, I have no intention of showing you my real face. I'll cover it up with something entirely irrelevent, cuz I roll like that, and because there's no way in HELL I want to be recognized. Mostly because I’m fairly horrified at the condition I’ve let myself get into, AND because I think anonymity might help me be more truthful in this blog.
So, here goes. Not here goes nothing. Here goes something. Hopefully fifty pounds.
P.S. That's not really me in the picture. I'm not brave enough to put a real pic yet.
