Thank God I didn't wear my white t-shirt

Diet is going pretty well. I only want to kill everyone, ever about once or twice a day right now. Although I totes cheated this past Saturday at Devon's birthday dinner at Star of India. It was magnificent. Then we went and sang (a generous word for what happened) karaoke at this place.

wtf?

Having the elliptical smack dab in the middle of my bedroom does, I have to admit, get rid of most any excuse not to exercise. I'm trying to take it one day at a time as I'm bothered by the idea of  living a healthy, balanced lifestyle. Not that there's anything wrong with it. But it bores me. It brings out a compulsive need to do something bad just because. Like drink an entire bottle of wine or have what I've deemed 'sober blackouts' where I do things like tell my friend's parents about dancing on a platform in Vegas even though I'm stone cold sober and cannot actually remember doing it or what my motivation could have possibly been in telling them. Sorry, Liz!

I've decided to re-watch Sex and the City while working out on it, in case I missed any important life lessons when I was 20 years old and couldn't relate to most of it. Although mostly now it just makes me seethe because there's no way you can write a weekly column and live in a brownstone in that part of NYC and afford Dior. It also makes me suspect I was supposed to be having a lot wilder of a time in my 20's and I'm pretty sure I can't catch up before December. My idea of being a fun, single gal revolves more around the luxury of having no one bother me rather than having loads of party and man-filled nights. Apparently I say incredibly inappropriate things on a regular basis without the excuse of booze. It's just me. And that's a terrifying thought. I'm half afraid being super healthy and mature in my food and exercise decisions will cause me to spiral out even more in other areas. Something's gotta give. Until then, keep me away from your parents/grandparents/anyone.

Meh. Time for my healthy snack.

No tutu = Less Failure

I know this comes as a disappointment to my friends and some of my more sinister family members, but there will be no tutu worn in this year's recital. HA. Of course, this means the likelihood of getting them to sit through a three + hour dance recital just to watch a nearly thirty year old express herself through the art of *dance* (imagine jazz hands right there) is somewhat lessened. That's a hit I'm willing to take.

My feet hurt

On the diet and exercise front, it turns out watching yourself leap around for nearly 4 hours a week in a giant mirror will really provide a lot of motivation. I mean, you're watching every part of yourself jiggle in every possible way. Jiggle in a graceful, pretty way. Jiggle in a soulful, lyrical way. Jiggle in an upbeat, tap-a-tap way, and finally Jiggle in a White Girl, you just keep on with that Hip Hop, Bless your heart, way. Food-wise, I'm doing Nutrisystem for a month to jumpstart everything. Since I don't cook (hate it more than anyone has hated anything, ever) it's much easier for me. I'm hungry and sort of vaguely unsatisfied all the time, but then I think back to last night, my jiggle gliding and twirling across that floor and I shut my mouth and don't feed it. Turns out that's basically what dieting is. Quit feeding your gaping maw, Sarah.

Anyway, I feel I'm doing those of you that I WILL entrap into attending this thing a favor. If you have to watch a person my age dance their heart out to a U2 song, at least I can try and look nice doing it. Now that I took your beloved tutu sighting away.

Embracing who I really, really am

I don't mean that in any spiritual or metaphysical way. I mean embracing that I am a lazy turd. I am happiest curled up in bed with my laptop and a giant Coke Zero. Bliss. I embrace that I am not 'sporty' and I am not 'outdoorsy'. I mean, I'm glad nature exists, and I like to be in nature for roughly 1-3 hours at a time, but unless it suddenly comes equipped with wi-fi and flush toilets it's not really my thing. I like the idea of it. I like the idea of putting on some fleecy thing I bought at a Lewis & Clark and some hiking boots and being super one with nature and sleeping under the stars but frankly, being outdoorsy doesn't really jive with two of my greatest loves: clothing with sequins and high heeled shoes. I tend to do better when I live in the middle of the city and go visit nature like a dear old friend I want to see sometimes but not actually be within regular visiting distance.

So I need to get into shape. And by get into shape I mean lose a crap ton of weight. I tried running in the morning but the second it dropped below 50F that went out the window. And no, no I cannot layer and get out there. I hate layers. This is one of the problems with being outdoors. You have to layer. Layers make me itchy and irritated and I get hot and sweaty and there's this whole thing where I can't have clothing touch my wrists. If you know me, you know all my shirts are stretched out from my pushing sleeves up to my elbows, even when they're not supposed to be there.

This year is all about as my mom just typed in an email, 'meeting you where you are.' And I'm often in my bedroom, trying to watch tv after getting home from Job #2 (an evening tutoring job). So here's my accountability. I'm buying a cheap treadmill (which is to say mom's buying it for me. It's awesome to be almost 30 and still be able to be a mooch off your parents) and I'm sticking it in my room along with a DVR and we are doing this thing. Plus, I've gotten into dance again which means more tutus for everyone. That yellow one from last year has gotten a lot of use in addition to provide hours of laughter for everyone forced to see me in it.

holla!

Alright. So here's to keeping me somewhat accountable and gaining a svelte new figure so I can continue to not date anyone because I'm an antisocial ice queen BUT now look really good doing it!

A blog my mother is allowed to read

This isn't my first rodeo. I actually have had a blog for seven years that shall remain nameless that I keep pretty tightly locked down as it's not exactly fit for public consumption. And by public consumption I mean my grandma and my underage cousins. So I've started another one and expect it to be read primarily by my mom. Because moms always think you're funnier than you actually are and that's excellent for the ego. In an age where every and their dog has their own blog, here's a list of things you will not find on mine: Cooking tips, cleaning tips, decorating tips, useful life advice, forty thousand pictures of my children, and pictures of whatever knitting project I've recently completed. You WILL find: failure, pictures of me doing ill-advised things, my dog, incorrect comma usage (I'm already up to like five mistakes), and babble.

Or things like this. Providing an explanation would only ruin it, trust me.

So, enjoy.