Confectionary Confessional

August 15th, 2009 8:27 AM -05

When a friend revealed she’d been diagnosed with swinusitus, I had to do something to help alleviate her suffering.  I knew there was only one place to go:  Mrs. Beasley’s Cupcakes, centrally located between Wilshire Boulevard and the 9th level of hell.

Unfortunately, global warming has temporarily halted Mrs. Beasley’s cross-country cupcake delivery.  As I searched for shippable baked goodiness, I came across the most evil thing:  the Treat Yourself selections.  For a fraction of the cost, Mrs. Beasley’s will send you an assortment of her finest temptations in plain cardboard packaging.  Like Playboy or Hustler.

Armed with a coupon code, it occured to me that this would be perfect for my office.  It’s been so long since our first encounter with Mrs. Beasley’s crackcakes that the arrival of any Mrs. Beasley’s product would surely evoke joy.  And it being my 33rd 27th birthday soon, I figured the timing was perfect.

I was about to check out when something vaguely familiar stopped me.  As if something was telling me I was doing something wrong…  Oh yeah, that was my conscience (in the form of my growing ass) whispering “Tara, Mrs. Beasley’s is not South Beach Phase 1 friendly…”


So you may wonder, “Why is Tara on South Beach Phase 1 when  she should already be at her 25lb weight loss goal?”

Simply put, I fell off the wagon so hard that I ended up where I started.  I could make excuses that eating takeout during our move and life’s compounded stresses made healthy eating impossible.  But the fact is simple:  I wanted crappy food and I ate it.  A LOT of it.  Oh, and I drank a lot, too.

When my fat pants stopped drooping and started constricting, I had to replace them with larger models.   The sticker shock from the size glaring back at me was horrific.   That’s when I decided enough was enough.

So now I’m back to square one.  I’m cutting out unnecessary sugar… weening myself off all most things deep fried…   25lbs by early November’s final dress fitting is doable.

Plus, it’ll give me an excuse to buy new pants in far less traumatic sizes.

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