Last night, I decided that I was going to move the "fat" indicator up a ways in my brain. Now, fat doesn't start until 350 pounds, and chubby starts at 300, so I'm on the skinny end of the scale. Yes, I am authorized to do that, but if I told you how that happened, I'd have to kill you.

This accomplishes three things: First, I can finish that bottle of wine with my dinner tonight and not feel like that's going to tip the scales for me, even though with the amount I've had to drink in the past three days, I've probably consumed more calories in liquid form than in food form.

Second, it'll lessen the guilt when I emotionally eat. Because that is just going to happen. I'm trying very hard not to, but I seem to have been stricken with some form of perma-PMS over the last two days and all I want to do is read a book in my pajamas and eat cookies while crying and listening to Christmas music (I know it's not even Thanksgiving yet...Johnny Mathis is my hero). Oh, and more red wine. Red wine is now my favorite.

Finally, if I'm not fat, then I don't have to obsess about how fat I'm going to look in the pictures we'll take while on our vacation, which I'm also feeling guilty about because we leave on the day scheduled for my Grandpa's memorial service.

Yeah, feeling guilty about that, too, but we've saved up for this for two years and it's all prepaid and we'll lose all of our money if we don't go. I'm pretty sure my Grandpa would reach down from the sky and smack me upside the head if, after spending that much money, I didn't take the trip.

So I'm going, but I feel crappy about it.

Ugh.

Therefore, I have shifted the fat scale up. Feel free to join me if you, too, need a little extra room.