no wonder my jeans are tight

Two dinner parties this weekend. 3 in the last 9 days. Chef’s club on Friday and a 40th bday party on Sunday for my dear friend visiting from New Orleans.  My stomach is exhausted from all the churning and gurgling of digestion. Come to think of it, my liver got a fairly decent workout too.  I have gained 10 pounds since we got married last NYE. Fortunately I am tall so this weight distributes itself with out too much fanfare or button popping. I thought the half marathon training would just melt these pounds away without any  changes what-so-ever to my diet. Wrong. I ran 13.1 miles and didn’t lose a damned pound.  I am a dietitian, shouldn’t I know that it doesn’t work that way?  Even worse, I am a dietitian who runs a “Biggest Loser” worksite wellness program.  Weight loss is my “specialty”. Every Monday morning I weigh everyone in, myself included. I gained another 4 pounds this week. Oh physician, heal thy porcine self.

Snakes suggested (perhaps after a glass of wine too many) that we should host dinner parties every weekend until we leave.   I do love inviting friends over, filling our old house with so much laughter, roasting, toasting, garlicky meats and caramelly sweets.  Mixing up different groups, trying out new recipes on such an eager and trusting crowd, but it is exhausting.  And taxing on my waist line. The pants I’m wearing today are total muffin toppers. I swear to god they were shrunk in the wash. No, seriously the tag says they’re 10% wool. So that is entirely possible. (Such a lame excuse for someone who had 2 –get ahold of yourself- slices of chess pie with blackened pineapple salsa and caramel sauce followed by healthy serving of homemade carrot cake with maple cream cheese frosting two days later. The remainder of which sits in my fridge waiting to entice me every time I pull into the driveway.)

Okay, so it’s fairly clean living from here on out. Or rather, clean living for another 9 days at which point we hop a flight to Paris and all bets are off. I will eat as many buttery, jammy, saucey, chocolatey confections as I can possibly get my chubby little mits around, because from what I’ve heard our calories aren’t worth as much over there. Something with the exchange rate.


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