After stepping on the scale this morning and realizing, to my horror, that I’ve been reading it wrong for the past, well, I don’t know how long, I am now fully motivated to start practicing moderation in all things. I guess after 9 months of deprivation and feeling crappy, and not gaining any weight during the pregnancy, I felt I deserved a little slack in the eating area. That, along with the fact that I’m no longer running 20 miles a week, has caused me to gain a little weight in the 3 months since my little Sunshine was born. I have gained more weight than she has. By a factor of 3. Oh, My.

Just don’t call me an idiot to my face. I read the scale wrong by TEN FREAKING POUNDS!!! So I’ve gained twice as much as I thought. No wonder I feel so weird! It’s almost a relief. Almost, I say. Now I might really go over the deep end, but at least I know why.

I have this little orphan living in my chest. It’s sort of a burning ball of tangled and unexplained anxiety that sits just above my heart. Sometimes it moves to my belly and cries. Sometimes it reaches out with its tentacles and grabs me behind the eyes, and causes half-awake delirium. There are a few things that pacify my little friend: huge, major distractions, like a week-long family reunion at a cabin in the mountains with no chance of escape, or eating constantly anything that falls into my view, or that I know is lurking somewhere on the horizon or behind the cupboard doors. Even Kryptonite cupboards would not have spared the innocent box of granola, or the frolicking tortilla chips. Let alone that giant 10-pound bag of chocolate chips that I thought was such a good idea, back when I couldn’t eat anything that wouldn’t resurface 10-15 minutes later in a transmogrified state.

So here I am. Too big for my britches. What do I do?