January 13th, 2009 by Kateastrophe

I’ve always wished I was one of those people who forgot to eat when they’re stressed. It’s such a quick, easy, painless way to a little bit of weight loss. My sister is gifted at it. The second a teeny tiny bit of stress hits her life, BAM she loses ten pounds. She’d have boy trouble and BAM, twenty pounds. She was like a size -10 with big boobs most of her life. She’ll say she hates me because of my green eyes. I pretty much win because her largest ever dress size was a 4. Green eyes and fat or brown eyes and deliciously skinny? Hmmmm, hard choice. SKINNY, Meg-o, SKINNY!

When I’m stressed, I want to do nothing but eat. Sugar and cheese, specifically. Not together, of course, because that’s, well, EW. I get the cooking bug and decide to “throw together” a delicious, parmesan cheese themed meal with parmesan crusted salmon, parmesan risotto and parmesan broccoli. No lie people, that’s what we had for dinner last night. It was deliciously unhealthy. Let’s just say that things in my life are reeking of a bit of stress. This new promotion at work is a great opportunity but it’s causing unusually high stress levels in the land of Kate. Cheese anyone?

I punished myself for the meal last night with my second trip to the gym in a week. I’m attempting to get back on the six-days-a-week work out wagon. I was doing really well last year until about June. I’d lost about ten pounds and was sitting comfortably on the bottom edge of one dress size smaller than I’d started the year out. Que summer vacations, work trade shows, trips to China and those bastard Holiday cookies. I stepped on the scary scale of death to (joyfully) discover that I’m back up TWELVE pounds. TWELVE. Ugh. Shoot me now.

I’ve never been a tiny, petite person. At my very skinniest I tipped the scales at a number that would cause suicides in most women, but the number isn’t really what bothers me. I was a size six and pretty damn proud of myself at the time. I’m big boned, have a large amount of muscle mass and strong, sturdy legs. I put muscle on quickly and, if I do say so myself, quite beautifully, so I weigh more than your average gal. I’m OK with that. What I’m not OK with is the actual size of my clothes. I’m verging on a size that most companies don’t carry, that my favorite denim companies won’t even consider making cute jeans in. I know I don’t look FAT, per say, but I sure don’t look skinny either. The lumps are taking over and they have GOT.TO.GO.

So, I’m jumping on the dreaded January Gym Bandwagon. I usually avoid the gym at all costs in January because I can’t handle the crowds of people with New Year’s Resolutions taking up space on my favorite treadmill, but this year, I figure I’ll just find it in my heart to use ANY treadmill. I’m not making a New Year’s Resolution, because that’s not really what this is. I’ve done it before. I’ve been the girl that every gym employee knows by name because I’m there every day. I’ve faithfully laid out my gym clothes and ingredients for a healthy dinner so that I could maximize my workout. Come February, when everyone gives up their resolve to return to the couch, I hope to be that girl again, but this time, permanently.

Oh, but just in case? I’m starting a liposuction fund.