It's time to get my shit together. Sure, things reached a Guinness Book of World Record level of Suck this past week, but aside from the mounds of inspiration to throw into my writing, it's really time to move on.
I'm supposed to be funny. I'm supposed to say "fuck" more often than is appropriate for the mother of a toddler. I'm supposed to be writing a funny-as-hell don't-call-it-a-memoir book about losing the Baby Ph(f)at that's supposed to be my ticket to literary stardom and become the gift-to-give to new moms everywhere.
What I shouldn't be doing is wallowing. It doesn't become me. Buttercup, after all, got her diva-like tendencies from somewhere, and the drying nail polish I decided to splash on at midnight 'cuz it seemed like as good a time as any face in the mirror is looking pretty guilty.
So maybe the pity party I allowed myself tonight, complete with too many carbs, a hellacious amount of fat, and enough fat to make a Weight Watchers leader cry wasn't the brightest of ideas. Food, when eaten for the wrong reasons, has a way of adding weight to the baggage already carried in my mind. Forget the scale; I know I'm heavier for what I ate. For what I chose not to let go.
As I said, wallowing does not become me. It's not who I am. I'm my father's daughter, and I am a strong, independent smart-ass. That, I'm told, is why you love me.
I'm back. And I suggest you buckle up.