Someone told me something last year that I really wish didn’t make a lot of sense: “If something isn’t working out for you, maybe you just don’t want it enough.”

So, much as I aspire for physical perfection, maybe I don’t want it as much as I do a grilled ham and cheese sandwich?

Doh!

So, now, I am fatter than I’ve ever been in my life.

I am so fat that I actually have boobs, and the clothes that I bought in India in March of last year, while on a steady diet of lamb biryanis, no longer fit. Geezoosfreakinchrist.

I would make resolutions, but we all know that I have the backbone of laundry detergent, and that any resolve I have automatically dissolves at the very sight of a can of Spam.

How much more now when I am on my way to wine country, then onto the home of tartiflette, and then onto the food capital of the world? (Burgundy, Avoriaz, and Lyon respectively.)

I hate myself.

And every skinny person with boobs. Seriously, how the hell do they get all their fat to go to their chests is what I want to know. And why, if you have all that jiggle on top, aren’t you considered fat? Whereas if you have it around your waist, you’re in grave danger of being harpooned?

"I am going to try to be a reasonable human being, I am going to try to be a reasonable human being, " she mumbled to herself as she piled on the fromage de chèvre on a baguette.