Four Days Out, and It’s Still the Size of a Whoopie Cushion

Last week, possessed by all-too-familiar body image demons, I got in a funk, wherein I stomped around and moaned to Byron, “I just can’t lose these damn seven pounds. You know I want to blame it on my tortoise-like metabolism, but, yea, it might be more honest just to label it my Wine Weight. Poop,… Continue reading Four Days Out, and It’s Still the Size of a Whoopie Cushion