I told her it was because the pants didn't really represent weight loss and nobody could tell any difference from week to week and she cut me off mid-sentence and told me to stop acting like a big douchebag.
"What does she know" I thought as I sat down on the couch with a bag of Mips (M&Ms and chips all wonderfully mixed in a bowl together) and split the ass out of my pajama pants.
Splitting the ass out of your pajama pants is hitting rock bottom. If I were a heroin addict it's the equivalent of getting down on all fours in the back of a big rig and giving a trucker named Dean the Cleveland Steamer for a few extra bucks.
It's that bad.
So I'm going to do something I've been thinking about doing for a while.
Ladies and gentleman... may I present... the Scale of Truth.
Ok... here I go.
Ok... seriously. Right now.
*holds breath and closes eyes real tight*
I swear I didn't think it was going to be an ounce over 168.2.
So there it is. And it's going to be every Monday morning until the second number is a 4, like it was before I got pregnant with Ellie.
If anyone would like to join me with their own scale of truth, email me at email@example.com.
Lord give me strength. And a new pair of pajama pants.