Scale of truth

A few weeks ago my friend Stacey totally called me out on flaking out on the Pants of Truth.

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.



Right... now.






Now.






Ok... seriously. Right now.




*holds breath and closes eyes real tight*



AAAAAAAAH!








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 skidmarking@gmail.com.

Lord give me strength. And a new pair of pajama pants.