My Wake Up Call

I've had to face several hard facts this week and I'm not even remotely happy about it.

As it turns out, I'm fat. I've been living in Denial (Thanks, Mom) for too long now. I was at the doctor's office about a month ago and was joking with the nurse about how I like my home scale better. Most people do, she says. You want to why I like Home Scale? Because he's broken. When I step on Home Scale I sigh and think I should lose twenty pounds. At least ten. Then I could go back to putting my jeans in the dryer, something I would never think of these days. But the truth is, Home Scale is broken to the tune of TEN pounds. So, you do the math. I'm not 10 or 20 pounds overweight, not chubby or fluffy or pudgy or puffy. Thirty pounds overweight is FAT. Of course I want to be healthy and be able to run with my kids and wear that Little Black Dress and all those ridiculous things Fat People say, but I'm a numbers kind of chick. And the number staring back at me is completely unacceptable.

Moving right along to Hard Truth Number Two -- I'm getting old. I could say "Older" but that's just another form of Denial. I mentioned a minor health concern to my PAC and she said, "These things happen to women your age." MY WHAT? MY AGE? Excuse me? I can live with this minor health concern. I added a new vitamin to my regime. But being referred to as "Women My Age" just sucks. Then Saturday, I'm washing my face when what do I see? Crows Feet. Yup, those little tiny blasted lines in the corners of my eyes. Oh and so they won't be lonely, I found puffy crinkly line-y things under my eyes, too, the perfect place for my eyeliner to settle in after a long day of trying to make me look like I'm awake and refreshed. I'd like to think this is a joke, but the sad truth is....

I'm fat and I'm getting old.

Time to clean out the pantry, lace up my sneakers, pop in to a Weight Watchers Meeting and order some fancy eye cream.