Crash and Burn: An open letter to Jillian Michaels

Dear Jillian Michaels,

I just wanted to drop you a note.

You know, just to tell you how I feel...

You keep telling me to bring me A-game. Be present in my life.

Blahdy blahdy blah.

Well, you know what? I just brought my A-game to the giant piece of tuxedo cake I scarfed down just now. I ate that sucker like I MEANT it, baby. Take that A-game and stand back in wonder and awe at the chocolate ring around my mouth that I will lick shamelessly like some messy toddler.

I brought my A-game to dinner, too, when I showed that Panda Express egg roll who was boss, bench pressed that sucker, dunked it in sweet and sour awesomeness and devoured it in three bites.

Yeah. I'm present when I eat.

So, with all this A-gameness going on, I'd like your voice to stop talking to me in the back of my head, telling me that I shouldn't have eaten that pile of chow mein noodles, or that I should probably stop drinking the slightly-less-than-healthy caffeine-free Dr. Pepper that is sitting next to me on my desk.

STOP IT.

I don't like food guilt.

I did your stupid "Ripped in 30" workout this morning, and I followed it up with a mile walk/run on my treadmill. I deserve to eat a giant pile of butter-slathered red potatoes. I do. And I don't need to hear your voice telling me about starches and how bad they are with each succulent, wretched bite I take.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know I didn't lose any weight this last week (we're not even going to talk about all the stuff I ate for Mother's Day, except to say four of the most beautiful words in the English language: "Browned Butter Caramel Snickerdoodles"...), and I know you're going to make some smart-alec-y remark about eating right, but I'm done, lady, I've had enough. I'm gonna drink that caffeine-free Dr. Pepper full well knowing I'm going to cry tomorrow as I stand on my bathroom scale and wonder how "that" happened.

I know that you'll just say the only time crying is okay is when I am bench pressing my own weight on a pile of hot coals while doing reverse crunches with 40-pound weight strapped to my ankles while you, Jillian,  stand on my stomach the whole time, yelling at me that bleeding out my ears will burn more calories.

But I'm done.

Until tomorrow...when I will drag myself out of bed at the crack of the crack of dawn and hit the power button on my DVD player and stand like some sort of drone in front of my TV, imitating you and your super fit minions.

So, because I will do this, just shut up. SHUT. UP. Let me enjoy that one last bite of tuxedo cake, that last sip of soda...

Sincerely,

Me