Gotta Shrink the Ass

There comes a time in every woman's life where she realizes that her ass is beginning to make it's move into a totally separate zip code. And guess what? Mine has begun it's migration and I need to stop it dead. Dead in its tracks - or, dead in my pants. It happened this morning when I tried to put on a skirt that I wore just a few months ago and, uh-oh, it wouldn't button. I tried to blame it on the commercial dryers that I use at the homeless-people-steal-my-underwear-Laundromat, but when I took a glance at my profile in the mirror, I knew I had my extra junk in the trunk to blame.

As a naturally-slim person, I never dreamed that the day would come where I would eat a pint of icecream and then the next day, I'd see it somewhere in my mid-region. But it has. And it's torture. I love french fries. I love cheeseburgers. I love Cheetoes. I love everything that is bad for me and my ass. (Except pate - that stuff is nasty.)

So I've begun. I am officially on a - dum da da dum - DIET. And none of that Anna Nicole crap. I'm on a eat healthy, lose a few lbs, gave some muscle tone, get off my growing ass diet. After all, who in LA wants to date Miss Big Ass when they can have Miss Perfect Ass? Sure, I'm smarter, funnier, wittier, etc., but, as they said in Nip/Tuck this week: Who wants Flabby Abby when they can have Perfect Pam? I know, I know, it's personality - ok, well, you try and land a date in LA with only personality. Plus, this is also for me. I'm broke and can't be buying a whole new wardrobe because my ass doesn't fit in my pants. Nope. (Sorry, Jill, it's just not going to happen.)

My friend Will wanted me to post my weight and keep track that way. Um, hell no. Do I look like Bridget Jones? Weight has little to do with it - I want inches, baby. Inches. And like Britney Spears' career, I want them to go buh bye.

I may need some moral support, though. When the cheeseburgers, margaritas and fries call my name I need to know that you're going to be there. When pints of icecream beacon to me, I need to know you're going to be there. Maybe not physically, because I have a small house, but in spirit. I need spirit support, whatever the hell that is.

I'll keep you updated on the process, although, I give myself two weeks before I say "f this" and buy new pants.

But, in the meantime, keep your fingers crossed - we're sending this fat back where it came from. Peace out, ass.

NOTE: THAT IS NOT ME IN THE PICTURE. I WAS JUST TRYING TO MAKE A POINT.