Ah, birthdays. Filled with emotion. And self-reflection. And food.
This year mine is filled with optimism. Okay, maybe “filled” is too strong a word. Maybe optimism is too strong a word! If you’ve been reading long, you know that optimism is NOT my middle name. That dubious honor belongs to “whacked-out crazy yo-yo dieter.” And I have the history to prove it.
Last year on my birthday I was at my goal weight. The year before on my birthday I was at my goal weight. This year on my birthday I am pretty much at my goal weight. (I know you wouldn’t want me to split hairs about a pound or two left to lose.) But, and this is a big but from a woman with a big butt, during each of the past years I have once again gotten caught up on the crazy roller-coaster ride of weight regain. Yes, last year. And the year before. And the year before that. Given my faulty memory that’s as far back as I can attest for sure but, trust me, the roller-coaster ride has been part of my life for a very long time now. I’ve been screaming with fright, trying to get off.
No more. That’s the wish I’ll make when I close my eyes and blow out the candles.
Not a wish really. Because wishes are something you throw out at the universe and then sit back and hope come to fruition. So I guess when I metaphorically blow out the candles I’ll be making a commitment. A pledge. A promise. To myself. This is my year. Forty-eight. Rhymes with “great.” And “what I ATE.” And William and Kate. (Sorry, couldn’t resist.) And I can’t WAIT. And “better LATE than never.” Which rhymes with “forever.” As in how long I plan to give up the yo-yo on my way to being normal. Starting now, with my 48th year.
So here’s to a birthday wish becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy. Best birthday gift ever.
P.S. I will not be having broccoli for my birthday dessert!