Birth of Venus.

Jennifer Hudson sang to me tonight.Right in my hotel room. A personal serenade!

She looked great: slim and trim, her buttery skin a perfect deep brown, dressed all in black and white. And she was singing this gorgeous song, a sultry Nina Simone tune called "Feeling Good." (I'm not ashamed to admit I like Michael Bublé's version the best. Yes, I am 55 years old on the inside.)

Of course, I only imagined she was singing to me. It's an easy mistake when you're swimming in an endorphin haze from an embarrassingly laborious mile and a half on the hotel fitness room's treadmill. Really, she was singing at me. From my TV. In a Weight Watchers commercial.

In said endorphin haze, which quickly exploded into blinding body dysphoria as soon as I hit the shower, I was signed up and ready to get started within 20 minutes. Bring on the points and the portion control.

Last year, I was browsing a consignment shop and found a pair of Paige Denim jeans in just my size. Okay, just my size about four years ago. But they had my name already on the tag! Embroidered. And they were DESIGNER. Even better: They were $20 at the consignment shop. Which I could afford at the time. So I bought them, even though they were too snug to walk in comfortably, and told myself they could be my goal jeans. (What a cliché! What a load of hooey!) Now, as I prepare to move those goal jeans into their third new closet on the same hanger, still unworn, I realize how damn ridiculous that is. Both that I'll have lived in four different apartments in one calendar year — did I just say that out loud? — and that those sad designer pants are one season away from having a permanent crease along the mid-thigh instead of some wicked stories to tell from nights on the town.

It'd be nice to wear those jeans embroidered with my name. Those jeans are my destiny.

But it's not about fitting into the goal jeans. And it's not about new year's resolutions either. This is not that. Really.

It's about abandoning my sense of perverse glee when I polish off an entire burger at Kuma's. Because that's happened too many times. Because it's not just the burger; it's the handmade waffle fries and the beer and the food coma that stops me from being active for the rest of the day. Because it's gross. That's not what they mean by the phrase "satisfaction of a job well done."

It's about liking myself better because I know I have the self-control to take home half the food I've ordered in a restaurant.

Maybe it's about learning to crave lentils and quinoa first, pasta and bread second. Fresh fruit before chocolate. Well…baby steps, anyway.

Someone on Twitter asked me last night, after I tweeted about having a salad and some toasted ravioli and chicken parmigiana and then some goddamn cannolis because I cannot turn down cannolis, if I had a hollow leg. Which is still cracking me up. I won't lie. But I don't want to be known as that girl who eats like a schlubby bachelor and still thinks she can bat her eyelashes and be a flirt. It's about not being the "coy fat girl."

Curvaceous is the far end of my spectrum, and I feel myself rapidly approaching voluptuous. Birth of Venus: acceptable. Odalisque: …no. She's lumpy. God, I don't want to be lumpy.

Eating less of all the delicious foods I eat doesn't make them any less delicious. Right?


In the end, I probably don't need some paid service to help me reach this goal. But I have this thing with shame. And guilt. But I have this thing with numbers.

I think it'll help having to track something every day, something to keep me conscious of myself, something to keep me honest. We just…won't mention that time I said I'd write every day in the month of December but didn't because I was too busy doing holiday things. Like eating.

THIS IS DIFFERENT. It needs to be.

Blogging every day is a nice exercise, yes. But keeping an eye on my weight and learning to be healthier? That's for life. And, okay. I'd be lying if I said it wasn't a little bit about the goal jeans.