I turn 45 years old in exactly 8 minutes.

I had lunch today with E and his coworker Steve.  I told Steve that I’m not too happy about this birthday because it puts me right at the midpoint between 40 and 50 years old.  I added that the alternative to aging is death so I’ll take the aging but I don’t have to be happy about it, damn it.

This is also my last weekend of complete and total food debauchery.  I’ve been on a spree since Halloween.  If food was cocaine, I’d be roomies with Robert Downey Jr. at the rehab clinic.  I bought a new Fitbit a couple weeks ago (I’ve lost 3 in watery washing machine deaths.  RIP, Fitbits.) and when I entered my current weight, Fitbit’s digital reply was “Wait.  What?  Girl, you crazy.  Stop fucking with me.”  Lane Bryant is sending me passive aggressive emails which might as well say “We all knew you and your fat ass would be back, bitch.  Here’s a coupon for stretchy pants.”

I start eating healthy and return to the gym on Monday, leftover birthday cake or not.  And who am I kidding? There will be no leftover cake.  I’ll be on that cake like a rabid dingo on a poor, innocent baby.

My motivation for losing weight is the Spring Break cruise we just booked.  I’m not that vain, I just really don’t want to get rolled back into the ocean because my fellow cruise travelers mistook me for a beached whale.  Fuckers.  My only hope for avoiding that fate is to lose a bit of weight and avoid wearing black or grey on the cruise but I’ve already accepted that this will probably end badly for me.  I’m fairly certain the term “harpooning” will be noted as the cause of death in my obituary.

Okay, okay.  Enough with the fat jokes.  I’m looking forward to my birthday cake but I’m looking even more forward to how I feel when I get some of this hibernation/holiday weight off.  It’s been kind of a rough few months so I’m not going to kick myself in the ample ass over it.  I will, however, miss lattes that don’t start with “Skinny”, Sugar In The Raw, fully leaded flavored coffee creamer, cookie dough in any form (fuck you, Salmonella!), and my recent wine kick.

The next time I post a blog, I’ll probably be going to or returning from the gym and tits deep in sweat from giving these cushy love handles I’m now sporting a haymaker right to the nuts.

But first, I have to finish that birthday cake.  Dingo.  Baby.  Let’s do this.