Dieting - or - Why I Would Rather Have a Dog Fart in My Face (Chubby Jones)

The first time I can remember being on a diet was at the age of 6. It was a self-imposed diet but mostly because I knew my parents weren't too keen on having a fat kid (no matter how utterly adorable I was - oh and I was pretty freaking adorable). My mom taught aerobics at the local JCC and my dad worked out at home when he was finished with long hours at work. Issues around food were ever-present and the more I worried about being chunky the more I ate. Thus, my love/hate relationship with dieting began after a trip to the swimming pool with my friends. I looked down at the little belly protruding from my multi-colored Speedo and wanted nothing more than to hide.

Needless to say, there haven't been too many trips back to a swimming pool since then. These days I only make a trip into chlorine if I am visiting my grandma and the over-60 crowd is doing their water exercises in the shallow end. Even if they're skinnier than I am, their resemblance to Sharpeis is more noticeable than mine - which oddly makes me feel better.

I've gone to fat camp twice and have easily been "on a diet" more than 100 times since first grade. I think it's safe to say I'm sick of it all. Dieting is for chumps but a "lifestyle change" is for winners. I'm not willing to give up an occasional night of binge drinking for the sake of my waistline but saying goodbye to a few nights of Makers and soda is do-able. My liver is probably happy about it too. The Wii Fit no longer tells me I am obese although it does say, "You're overweight" and then plays the "wah wah" Debbie Downer horns. So, dear friends, while I've already gotten started on the road to a smaller pooch, today is the day to get my chubby ass in gear. From here on out, Chubby Jones will be dedicated to the world of health and fitness. When I figure out a spot for pop snark elsewhere - I will be sure to let you know. In the meanwhile, I'll be getting my leotard and sweatbands ready.