For the love of all thing “HOLEY.”

So I’ve been reporting to the dictator (my weight loss app), feeling guilty that I know better than how I’m eating, and convinced more water would help this journey. But do I change things? Nope. Why? Because I’m a stress eater. And we’ve been in hockey try out hell. I had a kid telling me he’s a “nervous wreck.” Work is nuts. And it was month end for 2 of my businesses... need more?  (I’m usually not a person that makes excuses, but “good gravy”!) 

So I decided to give myself some grace, get used to the app, fill the house with healthy foods, and be ready to really dive in Monday. (Why does Monday always feel like a better day to start something? Who knows...)

And why THIS Monday? I’ve put this off for years, why the rush?! 

Because of the “Holey” spirit. I asked God to give me a little willpower, a little kick in the Butt. And apparently he did while I wasn’t looking because after cruising around to the grocery store, the hockey rink, and the gas station, I came home, bent over to grab a knee hockey stick and Charlie yells “omg, mom, I can see your ass cheek!” 

Yep. My 9 year old said ass cheek. And what he said was TRUE. Total blow out. Like... my rockstar stretch skinny jeans were pissed. They were tired of being stretched to the limit. They gave in and gave out. Jared said “poor quality,” but I think they were just quitters. And I have no time in my life for quitters. So I threw those bitches in the trash and will survive in my jeggings until I can drop a size. Maybe my next pair will be more badass and supportive like “go girl- we gotcha- you can do this and we’ll be here with you ‘til we’re baggy in the ass” and less lazy valley girl “I’m tired, this sucks, life is hard.”  Quitters... 

I wish I could say this is the first time this has happened. It’s not. 

In my best golden girls Sophia voice... “picture it. Southlake, Texas. Christmas 2019....” We were headed to see Christmas lights with my in laws, my brother in law, and our hockey billet kid. I volunteered to ride in the BIL’s jacked up jeep. That, my friends, was a bad idea. The mount up was tricky and when I twisted, my old faithful favorite pair of jeans let me down. Luckily, we were 2 minutes from Old Navy... the promised land.  But I’ll never get the different renditions of “Moon River” And “O Holy Night” that were sung to me that night out of my head.

If a skinny chick rips her jeans, it’s like “oh you poor thing” and all the other skinny girls run to help.  I feel like the more weight one carries when this happens, the more judgmental tone falls on the “oh you poor thing” and your “fluffy friends” run to the mirror to check their own pants. 

I think I’m finally ready To start this diet. If the joint pain, immobility, shortness of breath and overall shock at what I’ve done to myself isn’t enough... the thought of displaying my white ass for the world to see through a denim window...IS.  Until then - never fear- I’ll wear sweats.