According to Weight Watchers, I’m only 5-8 pounds overweight. That said, I was looking at the high-end number. The low-end number made me want to vomit into my running shoes and then run laps with them on just to remind me of what a big fucking pig I am.

For all intensive purposes, 5-8 pounds of extra flesh really ain’t much in our morbidly obese, Type 2 diabetic, super-size society, but when I glimpsed a picture that a co-worker posted of me on Facebook from a birthday party a few months ago, I nearly lost my lipids.

No wonder men weren’t staring at me on the Metro.

I knew there was a reason I had resisted buying new pants as of late.

I used to pass on the bread basket

Now I’m practically threshing the glutons straight down my gullet.

Fuck next year’s harvest, I’ve already turned this year’s crop into enough Bagels to make a Jewish Princess blush.

I’ve got enough tummy flab to insulate a whole fleet of homeless Haitians.

The fucked up thing is, all I can think about right now is the Triscuit and cheese spread duet waiting for me in my kitchen.

Or the microwavable Kettle corn of the full-fat vareity and the 20 ounce Diet Pepsi I was going to rock while watching Bad Boys 2 tonight. (Fuck you if you can’t grasp the genius that is Willard Christopher Smith Jr.)

So, what to do about the chubby Charleston Chew I have become?

How much weight would I need to lose to look like Valerie Bertinelli in those god damn Jenny Craig commercials?

I really don’t need to be swimsuit ready by Spring, but I better start counting calories before I start competing for sympathy along with those poor beached whales in NZ.

Time to postpone my next trip to NYC to see Staten Island’s favorite son.

Or the hot redhead who I’ve worshipped from afar for the last three years. He practices Krav Maga and posts Facebook updates on his weekend ten-mile runs. Me thinks I better start hitting the pavement before I can hope to hit anything on his lithe lower body.

No trips to Texas to spend a weekend with my gay boyfriends until this extra epidermis sleeps with the fishes. I mean, if I’m going to function on fatty acids, I suppose the Omega 3 variety will have to do for now.

How many calories does h.w.c. actually contain?

Should I be concerned?

I mean, I know Weight Watchers makes you count points for booze, but jism may be going a little far.

Seems to me, semen shouldn’t count anymore than your average plankton.

Someone call Jean Nidetch so we can revise this antiquated system.

I’m 142 pounds and fearful if I don’t skim the cream soon, I may miss out on all the lovely livestock life has to offer.

So, tomorrow brings the treadmill and a newly enforced ambivalence to carbohydrates, cheese, and Grey Goose (God help me).

In the name of Bridget Jones and all those other girls who starved themselves skinny to stardom and romance incarnate, I salute you.

Here’s to:

Poise over paunch.

Muscle over milling.

Resolution over reticence.

Chic over cheesecake

Until Costco puts that big motherfucking white chocolate raspberry truffle thingee on special.

I’m not superhuman for Christ’s sake.

Damn people!