Daylight savings is next week and I’m breaking into a cold sweat just like I do every spring. My breath is irregular and I’ve developed a twitch in my eye. It’s all because I know that summer, that dreaded swimsuit season, is just around the corner. I already miss fall with its hardy soups and roasted turkeys. I miss Christmas when people dropped off sugary goodies more regularly than the mailman brought my Christmas cards. I miss comfort foods and fuzzy slippers, pajama pants, and puffy coats that camouflaged my jiggly arms.
But the party is over and I’m throwing a fit that rivals my five-year-olds tantrum over a helium balloon in the dollar store (of course I caved—my sanity is worth more than a dollar.) I don’t want to face the scale. I don’t want to know how much my body loved homemade fudge and I certainly don’t want to know that the fudge actually weighs more once it’s been consumed than it did in the package. I’m in denial and I want to stay there. That’s why I’m seriously considering a move to Alaska. Not only is it cold ten months of the year, but they have entire weeks where they don’t even see the sun! I’m thinking that’s just a great excuse to rent movies and eat heaping bowls of popcorn. But unless I can convince my family that they want to live next to the Palin’s, I’m going to have to give up the popcorn—but I don’t have to like it.
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