If you took all the weight I’ve gained and lost over the past 20+ years, you could build a road from Texas to New York. I’ve weighed every possible weight and worn every possible size known to women. I’ve gone from fluffy to fat only to travel back down to flat. I have been trim, slim, and a mean, lean machine. I’ve been mistaken for a beached whale, harpooned, and have been asked to display advertisements on my midsection. I’ve served as the 1998 Poster Person for Omar the Tent Maker. I have starved myself to the point of looking at my children and wondering what they would taste like, if marinated.

I have watched Gone with The Wind a zillion times devouring whole boxes of Oreo’s with side orders of Pickle-Flavored Potato Chips just because Rhett left; again. I’ve eaten bananas and grapefruit for months in order to look good on the beach and sunburned to the point I needed medical attention. Okay, I didn’t think that one through, but I looked good.

I’m tired. Tired of the world telling me how I should look. Tired of the TV and magazines telling me I need to suck it in, trim it up, and make it firm. For what? I learned a long time ago Mr. Right doesn’t exist and Mr. Coffee, with a dab of flavored creams, is better and doesn’t expect me to cook.

If a man can’t accept the wonderful, loveable person I am, why would I want him? I’m too old to give birth or be Miss America, too broke to buy the latest fashions, and quite frankly as Rhett said, I don’t give a…a…rip. I like to eat. Sue me. I like meats, sweets, potatoes, and any kind of cheese.

It’s more than just liking food though. The real problem is I hate diets. Not only do I feel deprived, but my entire personality goes through some kind of metamorphosis. Whenever I see a skinny woman, I secretly place a curse on her Victoria’s Secret bra. How sane is that? After hours at work, I empty all the Sweet-N-Low out of the dispenser and fill it with real sugar. Pretty creative, eh? Even in the super market, I have been known to stand and lick the outside of the ice cream freezer doors; just to pretend.

Dieting changes my attitude at home too. When my oldest son told me he was leaving for a date, I grabbed both of his legs. As he pulled me along to the door I cried “don’t leave me alone in a house with chocolate-covered raisins!” As he shook his head and left, I hollered after him, “I gave you life, you little ingrate!”

In truth, I’ve finally convinced myself that a person should not be judged by the size of their clothes anyway, but by the size of their heart… right?

Okay, everybody that believes that, let go of your pizza.