An obsession with Diet Books.

I have an obsession with Diet Books. I think I may own all of them but the all meat one – that one grossed me out so much I only read about the book online – and that French women one – that lady just annoyed me, I read all about the book online DVR’d the appearance on the Today show and after this review I say to you Miss. Thin France – stay in France. That’s my big recommendation if you are super thin and naturally perky and fantastic – stay in freaking France – you can’t handle America, America will wreck you and your size 0 self. Wreck. My latest Borders after work purchase is The Abs Diet – for Women.

I figured out that if I spent the amount of time I spend reading the diet books on say my treadmill rather then my, um, ass then I might not need to read diet books.

See the thing is – I don’t want to diet – not that anyone really wants to – I just want to be smaller – to say fit into a bathing suit without feeling like a 13 year old girl who just grew boobs and doesn’t know what to do with them. This is the part of the blog where I hope that my boss and grandpa aren’t reading today – but I’m sure you are so Hi and welcome to my insecurity.

The book I need is - How to make your thighs and tush smaller without doing a damn thing. Any takers? I thought so.

I have GREAT intentions. I read the book, I buy the food any special necessary equipment and then you know what happens with this new little investment. Very Little. Do you know why? Because I genuinely don’t want to deal with it. I had a breakdown moment a few weeks ago in front of the husband (which rarely happens because usually he’s the one with the mild breakdown) and the husband suggested I get surgery – not joking – if you had been in the car as a fly you would be dead right now because the tension that I generated off of this one statement literally sucked every bit of oxygen out of the car – the fly would be dead. I was naturally outraged. It led me to a few days of trying on everything in my closet before leaving the house – which is no small feat – I have a rather extensive closet….it’s a wonder I ever made it to work. I’m usually a planner – I plan what I’m going to wear for the week on Sunday – because if I don’t the empty closet thing happens – in this scenario I have NOTHING to wear. NOTHING. It’s a sad sad place where I whine, try on clothes that haven’t actually Fit (I define fit as being able to take at least 1/2 a breath) since high school – or that one month in college where I existed on broccoli and two bites of chicken a day. Then I settle on the first thing I tried on – it’s a daunting little dance I play with the closet. So I plan.

Where was I? Oh yes, good intentions. So is this time different. No. It’s not. I’m going to host a party where all the women in my life can come to my house and burn all of the diet books we’ve purchased – maybe toast some marshmallows on what is sure to be a huge bon-fire and make a s’more or five. Now that, I can commit to.