With the New Year upon us, I feel pressure to make resolutions, even if only to break them, like I normally do.

But, you see, I’m in a huge rut.  A funk.  Big fat lull.  Emphasis on the big and fat.

I’m grossing myself out.

Learning that when your pants fall down, epidemically, it’s NOT because they’re too small, like you had previously hoped,  but because the hump that is your (and by ‘yours’, I mean ‘my’) belly and hugemongous ass cannot sustain the waistband- much like the physics behind an avalanche. Or a plumber.  I’ve been testing the limits of string bikini panties and waiting for them to give.  Revealing the crack of my ass on too consistent of a basis (and not in the  Rock of Love purposely kind of way.)  Checking my dryer setting for shrinking my clothes.  Wondering if rolling deodorant under my boobs will help with profuse sweating issues.  I’m literally a hot mess.

My resolution is to lose weight.   I know- shocking- and so profoundly original, right? 

Well, if it were like in years past, I would be all talk and just make the resolution for appearance’s sake and and enjoy a slice of my son’s birthday cake in January.  And then a slice of my daughter’s birthday cake in February.  And then a slice of my other daughter’s birthday cake in March.  (And by ’slice’ I mean MOST of the cake- as shown in Exhibit A from my daughter’s birthday in November!)

Then I could go on about how I am a mom of four and am perfectly average size for an American woman and love my curves and deal with it.

But it’s not like years past.

Sure, I’ve been watching a lot of Jersey Shore and think that I could fit in pretty well with some of those big boned tramps from Joisey right about now- as long as I had a weave and a deep dark fake bake tan and REALLY bad fashion sense, but this is the year that I can’t cheat.  The year I can’t break my resolution.   It’s serious.

This year I have my 20 year class reunion.

People change (maybe not EVERYONE gains 50 lbs-ahem, but people DO change.)  Women gain weight, men lose hair, people age.  I get that.  But I’m planning the fucking thing.  It’s like inviting people to my house and the inside being like an episode of Hoarders.  What was I thinking???

So, it’s on.  The cleanse has begun.  I have drank more water today than any human should and have made enough trips to the bathroom to count for a trip to the gym (totally, right?)