Better late than never

For your reading pleasure, the top eleven signs that it's time to start taking care of yourself and making some healthier choices (I just couldn't leave it at ten - we're beyond that at this point):

You've sent an email in the last two weeks to your girlfriends entitled "Big Girl Pants" and it wasn't a forward.

You've started to consider the maternity section as an alternative for clothing options - and you're not pregnant.

 When self-medicating, cupcakes are your drug of choice.

You can't remember your Weight Watcher's online password, though you've been paying for the membership monthly for about a year and a half now.

Clothes that you wore "when you were bigger" can no longer be classified as such.

You buy bags of candy at the grocery store without remorse - and it's not Halloween.

You get winded bending over to pull on your sassy black boots.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in a store window and don't even recognize that it's you at first. Surely that double chin belongs to someone else.

You've moved from denial to acceptance, and just started buying the bigger size without thinking twice.

It is now quite obvious that your Facebook profile picture (though accurate when you uploaded it 18 months ago) was definitely taken more than 20 pounds ago.

And the number one sign that it's time to get off your duff and get to work on that body:

Your doctor has begun threatening you with scary sounding medications if you don't get things under control on your own.

It was all fun and games right up until that last one.  It's time to stop saying "I'll start next week", and actually start next week.  Rather than trying to stuff in every horribly fattening food before my self-imposed deadline, like I usually do, I've already started working in some better choices.  I hate feeling tired and slow and lethargic, and I'm ready to be a better version of myself again.  I liked that girl.  I want her back.  She was pretty hot.  I kid, I kid....

I know how I morphed into this, and I know what it takes to morph back. Hard work, sweat, and tears.  Oh yes, I've been known to cry while doing particularly butt-kicking workouts.  (This is why I workout to DVD's in my living room folks.)  So Amelia and I have made a pact to keep each other in check, and I figured that posting it on the blog was a pretty good method of accountability in itself.  So hold me to it people.  No more Gooey Nutella Butter-on-the-thighs recipes here anymore.  Let's do this thing.