Oh For Cryin Out Loud

...because that's what I did. Last night. Out of nowhere. For no good goddamned reason. We were watching tv, drinking Sunday night beer. Eating leftover stroganoff (mm) and generally enjoying ourselves. Then a wave of "You're Horrible, You Know" hit me.

Pasko comes back into the room, bewildered at the sight of my staring off into space with a look on my face usually reserved for...I dunno...remembering the dead. Worrying about the sick. Passing a kidney stone. Something important.

"You look sad. What happened?"

"I'm just wondering if I'm ever going to lose this weight. Actually ever consistently do something about it, instead of just fits and starts. The only thing I do consistently about it is obsess and complain. So i just..."

And then weeping. Open, flat out weeping.

Here's something good about being in my mid-thirties where this type of behavior is not, shall we say, novel: I know where this came from.

Here's something good about being in a long-term relationship: so does Pasko. His idea was different than mine, and we were both right.

My theory is the simple, sweep-it-all solution: I'm hormonal and PMSing enough to fuel an entire marathon of The View.

His theory is far more...well...observant: Every time I have a costume fitting, this happens.

He is correct. So am I, but his sounds less dismissive. Usually it's the man that brushes away all tears with PMS excuses. Way to go, Pasko.

Now, the first part of the costume fitting was great. Things were being built on me to correct and accentuate what I'm lacking and what I have, respectively. That's pretty easy. The second part involved putting on Wal-Mart jeans that were allegedly two different sizes...and yet they were both the same tight fit. Also, I was surrounded by teeeeny women while I stood there in black jeans that looked like tar on a sausage. Not so easy.

Sure, it took damn near 12 hours for it to hit me as hard as it did, but it hit all the same.

Clearly, I need some kind of break from that thinking. It's self destructive and never points me in a direction I need to be in. Also, it won't help me when I'm buying a dress for a wedding this weekend.

Maybe I just need to sit down with some Lifetime television as punishment to think about what I've done, and what I sound like.

(shudder)

Nah. I don't deserve Melissa Gilbert and Tiffany Amber Theisen's fake tears. I wasn't that out of control.

Maybe I just need to punch a bag at the gym and shut up.

Maybe I need to like myself more.

Maybe I need a pony.

Well, I certainly need a pony. I mean, if there's any key need on this list, it's the pony.

Right? What?