First things first, BF-H has reported that my blog is making her computer crash. I haven’t heard that from anyone else, but if you’re having that problem, let me know. I don’t know CSS at all, but I’ll google some shit and see what I come up with.

As you may know (if you’ve been a reader of Half Truth for a while) last year was weight loss year. I spent about three years getting to the size of an orca and then finally decided I wanted to return to my life as a nimble dolphin. Last year I was a machine: up at six am, working out for two hours, going to work, going to yoga after work, signing up for races, runs, groups. I think I even earned groupie status at the gym. It was the Year of the Rat, and not to sound like a nut job, but I’m a rat and I’ve exhausted every other reason as to why, now that it’s the year of the Tiger, I can’t find the mojo to work out. It’s lost. I can’t find it. If you’ve seen it, let me know.

I used to believe that Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays were off limits. If you plan a social outing for any of those days you are doomed. You set the wrong tone for your week, get out of the zone, and within six weeks you’re back to looking like a baby whale. I lived and died by that rule last year. At the very least I could count on losing that pound that I gained while binge drinking and ordering Pizza Pier at 1:46 AM on both Friday and Saturday nights. (Which reminds me… for about a year I had this weird obsession with making grilled eggplant sandwiches when I was drunk. It’s actually absurd the way I would come home from a bar and make a gourmet panini from fresh mozzarella, eggplant, pesto, and foccacia. I’m pretty sure there is a television pilot in there somewhere.)

But this year, this 2010, the Year of the Tiger, I have decided that youth and revelry are far more important than fitness and well being. I sit at my desk on Tuesdays hoping that someone will call me to get a cocktail or go to dinner so that I can skip out on yoga and go dine al fresco and drink beer on tap. I’m still doing the naked mirror dance, I’m still trying on bathing suits to torture myself, but rather than get excited to go for a jog or hit up a yoga class, I find myself shrugging and thinking “ehh… could be worse.”

And it’s gonna be worse. If I don’t get a handle on my new Hershey’s Kiss habit it’s going to be the only action I’m getting. Not to mention my gay is moving to New York which means I have to jump back into the fabulous but frightening shark tank that is the gay scene to try to find a new gay. Ain’t nobody gonna take on a fag hag who looks like she has a Bump-It on her ass.

Oh. sigh.