Scurry to Target tomorrow

quick like a bunny - okay, waddle and groan, if you ate like I did yesterday - if you like pampering on the cheap.

They've got this three piece Conair gift set on sale for $29andchange. Foot soaker/bubbler. Parrafin soaker. Manicure roto-tooler. In one box. Two day sale. I bought it for me and the Girl, and we will not be wrapping that sucker, not when we want holiday fingers and toes. I had one of those manicure rototools (also can be used on dogs if they're not afraid of the buzzy sound, which leaves Dudley way out) back in the Day, and I actually used it and liked it. It does take a little practice, but it buffs a short fingernail like nobody's business, and since I've never learned to type or do a damn thing with long nails and I can chip nail polish 30 seconds after it dries, my nails are Unfashionably Short and Naked.

Naked - something I really don't want to be in a full-length mirror under dressing room lights. Not that I was naked, mind you, but I was close enough when utterly failing to fit into the size 10 Liz Claiborne dress that was perfect for the Fancy Schmancy Law Firm Shindig.

Oh baby, it was so right, so my style, so age-appropriate, classic, law firm shindig ready.

Oh, baby, it so did not fit. AT ALL. Not like, "Oh, eat lightly and exercise for a few days, it'll be fine." Like, are you kidding me, that is nowhere near your size. That dress should have fit me. I clearly remember sliding into dresses cut like that with ease, and in size 8, yet. And I don't mean "in high school." I mean as an adult, that dress should have slid on over my head.

So Crazy Catherine is going to boot camp during the holidays. Santa gave me an early present - a vicious bitchslap. The only present I want this year is firm abs and a firm ass, and I'm the only one who can give it to me.

Because, here's the thing: I'm full of shit. Not in the "a good laxative will fix it" way, but in the "I kid myself about how I got into the shape I'm in and what I'm doing about it" way.

I've gained 11 pounds (as of this morning) since starting the Nouveau Job. I can list a dozen reasons, but they are more like excuses. I eat too much and I don't exercise enough. That's all there is to it. End of story. Am I going to the gym? Sometimes. Am I paying attention to what I eat? Rarely. Am I lying to myself, exaggerating the former and minimizing the latter? Oh hell yeah.

And even 11 pounds ago I was still 20 pounds over my Former Greatness - not when I was in high school, kiss that itty-bitty 22-inch-waist-and-hipless body goodbye and I don't WANT it back, but since I was 35 and looked and felt really damn good and had strangers complimenting me on the street and cowboys yee-haaa-ing me in the country. Slim. Healthy. Flexible. Now my knees and lower back are telling me I weigh too much, and when I do a crunch there's a throw pillow in the way. Oh wait, that's just my gut. Charming.

And here's the thing - people will tell me I don't need to lose weight. We have this expectation that women gain weight as we become "older." We are, to some degree, but that's assuming that we are starting from our ideal weight. Most of us haven't seen our ideal weight in decades, so when we allow ourselves to gain, it's bad to worse.

I've listened to the sweet talk, the "Oooh, you're fine!" and I've ordered that cheesesteak and fries. And then there's the beer and wings. And the beer and pizza. I eat like Homer Fucking Simpson, no wonder I'm a Dumpy Old Broad.

And here's the other thing - this sad state of affairs owes itself to too much Self Esteem. You know the crap they say these days - "You have to love yourself as you are before you can lose weight." Fuck that crap. Look around while you're at the mall. Americans have the highest self esteem on the planet, and we're FAT. We loved ourselves into 5'4" and size 14 as the national average. And the type II diabetes rate? Hmmm, guess we loved ourselves into that, too.

I "loved myself" from trim and able to wear anything in a size 6-8 into 30 extra pounds, via high self-esteem and denial. And I've lamely screwed around with losing it ever since. I lose a few, I gain a few, I go to the gym, I quit going, I go back, I quit again, I order that Philly Cheesesteak and Fries and eat that Halloween candy. I've lied to myself, I've lied to the blogworld, I've been a happy little blob of denial, until Liz Claiborne scared me straight.

I just can't stand it anymore. Never mind the aching knees, the lower back, the small frame that isn't meant to carry any extra poundage, I'm just disgusted with what I allowed myself to become, listening to the voices of "Love Yourself," and "Mmm, pie!" A little self-loathing, appropriately applied, is a healthy thing. It may keep me from a heart attack or Type II diabetes, if I can keep on loathing myself just enough.

Apple pies? I made two. I don't want any. They can go to Girl's BF's house, she can eat them there.