I am wearing tight jeans this week, the ones I would like to wear comfortably. I am not advocating the skanky Mom jeans look; I don't want to start a trend. God forbid. But I started taking Prednisone this week and I am determined not to gain more weight via the pill route. So I am eating lots of veggies and avoiding the Black Butte Porter my honey put in the fridge for me. I am avoiding the remnants of Easter Bunny fallout. I even refused to eat the crank-laced chips at Chipotle.
(That's a lie. I did eat some. Stephanie made me. Ok, she didn't make me. She lovingly shared her stash.)
My vise-cut jeans are a fail-stop, a reminder: pig out now and I will swell up real big like. The next thing I know, Johnny Depp will be sicking legions of Oompa Loompas on me, rolling me off to the mysterious juicing room. It's not pretty. Not at all.
I am sure there are more loving ways to cope with meds that pack on the pounds - wear big, baggy sweats or granny pants. But I am all out of love here. It's hard to be nice while chewing on carrot sticks.
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