Liar, Liar, Big Girl Pants on Fire

Now that it’s getting warmer (and then colder…and then warmer again…and then snowing…and then slightly warmer again before a cold front comes in around 3 p.m. and makes it hail), all our collective thoughts are slowly turning toward spring. And as such, all the things we’ll finally be able to do again now that winter is over (like the ability to go outside without looking like the little brother from “A Christmas Story”).

In general, this is good news. Save for one small, minor detail.

As we shed those bulky coats, our true form will emerge for all to see, much like a butterfly from its cocoon. Only our post-winter butterfly body is blindingly pale, semi-gelatinous and 10 pounds heavier than we remember after spending the past four mouths hibernating on the couch under our Snuggie.

Or maybe not for you. Maybe you’re one of those jerks who actually jogs all year round and doesn’t use Christmas as an excuse to eat your own weight in mashed potatoes. Which, if that’s the case, good for you. Also, I hate you.

As for the rest of us, we are starting to hit panic mode. And as such this is the time of year I fondly like to refer to as New Year Resolution 2.0, when we all suddenly remember we were supposed to lose weight and NOT eat Peeps and leftover Valentine’s Day chocolate for breakfast anymore. Followed by mentally beating ourselves up because we realize if we had started in January, we would have hit our goal by now.

But instead we are clinging to our old college sweatshirt like it’s the last lifeboat on the Titanic as we obsessively check the weather forecast for the day it finally is too warm and we’re forced to take it off, revealing the horrid neglect we’ve done to our body as young children run away screaming from us in our stretched-out tank top.

Now, I was determined this year not to stress out about losing weight. Or even getting into shape. Or doing pretty much anything that required me to feel bad about sitting in bed eating Fluffernutters. In fact, I didn’t even make a New Year’s resolution. I finally felt I was mature enough to accept my body as it is, flaws and all.

And that was actually quite easy to do when I was wearing my husband’s giant flannel pajama pants and three layers of thermal shirts.

But then I made the mistake of going shopping and trying on a summer dress. Now, I’ve never actually seen sausage being made, but I’m assuming it’s somewhat similar to the experience I had trying to get that dress on in that dressing room.

So, a few weeks ago, I downloaded a weight loss app to my phone, where I can input how much I want to lose and by when. And then every day it tells me how much I can eat and how much I need to exercise and in return I tell it just how much I did eat and how much I did exercise.

Only it hasn’t been working. And I think I figured out why.

I keep lying to it.

Of course, it didn’t start out that way. I was very honest at first, even adjusting my numbers for how much wine I drank since my standard glass of wine is not apparently the industry standard (the industry standard, of course, being quite quaint…if we weren’t supposed to fill our wine glass to the very top, why did they make the wine glass that big, am I right? ).

But then week after week, the app kept showing me an angry red bar graph of how many calories I was over each day on the “Your Progress” tab. It got quite depressing after awhile.

So, I would just toss in some little white lies at first. That 150 calorie Cadbury Creme Egg? Oh, I totally burned that off by typing. No need to add it then. That fourth piece of bacon I had? It was pretty small. Smaller than your average piece of bacon, at the very least. No need to mention it. That last cocktail? It was mostly ice. And vodka. Both practically calorie-less. Obviously, it doesn’t really count then.

But then it started to escalate. I fudged the numbers of my portion sizes and exaggerated my fitness regime (counting the trip there AND back, I’d say it’s at least a half-mile walk to the mailbox).

And then it became full-blown lies. I filed my Sour Apple Martini under “apple.” My latte under “black coffee.” Those three pieces of pizza under “yogurt.”

It eventually got so ridiculous, I just stopped using it altogether. I just couldn’t bear looking at its innocent little interface anymore, that cursor blinking so trustingly at me and knowing that I was betraying it.

But that doesn’t mean I’ve given up on getting into shape and getting healthy. Oh no.

I just downloaded a new app this morning that has no idea of my devious ways.

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