But I don’t get high. I get sore. I get depressed. I get pissed off that simple things are just so damn hard for me.

A lack of natural coordination pretty much meant I sucked at every single sport I ever attempted. The only thing I could do reasonably well was hit a softball, because let’s face it, you just stand there and time your swing.

I was always the last picked for every game in school. I was the first target in dodgeball and then I would plant my fat ass against the cinder block wall that no doubt contained seven layers of lead paint and tried really hard not to cry. I usually failed at that too.

So anyway, I hate to exercise. And I’ve been off work for three days and have not been to the gym even once, even though it was on the to-do list.

Making salsa was on the to-do list. I got THAT done. Priorities. I haz ‘em.

I am down to one pair of jeans that I can wear since I piled back on half the weight I worked so hard to take off in 2008. I have like, two dozen pairs of pants, and can’t squeeze my chubby cheeks into any of them.

I wear what were supposed to be my fat jeans for two or three days, wash them and wear them another couple of days. To my office. Luckily, my boss has yet to ask me why. I’m hoping she just hasn’t noticed.

I make sure to wear nice underwear every day because surely these overworked jeans will soon unravel into threads and fall off. I’d rather not be wearing granny panties with stretched-out elastic waistbands when that happens.

Last weekend, my dryer died. This was a surprise since I was reasonably sure it’s partner, the washer, would be the first to go. It’s sad when one half of a couple goes before the other. The washer seemed lonely standing there next the decaying corpse of its formerly warm friend.

Out of mercy and respect for their longstanding relationship I had no problem sending my 13-year-old Whirlpool washer and dryer together appliance heaven, even though the washer was still chugging loudly away. Brand new front loaders FTW!

But when the dryer died, that was a clear obstacle to my wash-and-wear jeans situation. The new appliances wouldn’t be delivered until Friday. I hadn’t washed my jeans since Saturday. I was not looking forward to smelling like ass by mid-week and I doubted anyone would believe I spilled ketchup on the exact same spot every single day on each pair of what has to be a wardrobe of the identical pairs of the same faded jeans.

So on Wednesday I figured out that, with just the right top, I could get away with wearing a pair of yoga pants to work. I’m so short that for me, yoga pants are just, pants.

On Thursday I sent my jeans through my washer one last time and then took them to the laundromat to dry them. Laundromats are scary places and I cannot say I missed them over the last 13 years. Jeans went from wet to dry and I didn’t get mugged so I considered myself very lucky.

The point of all this is that I have ballooned to the point that I have ONE THING TO WEAR on the lower half of my body and so I had to wear stretchy pants to work and risk getting assaulted at a sketchy laundromat to maintain the ONE THING with a zipper that I can wear.

And all this drama is the direct result of comforting myself with cannoli and tiramisu every time I have a shitty day and believe me, I have some pretty crap-filled days. Custard and chocolate beat the hell out of Prozac and Klonopin for endorphin building in my brain, and believe me, I take both.

I took Friday off so I could be here when my space-age OMG THEY ARE SO COOL washer and dryer were delivered. Then I was going to go to the gym. But I needed to study for what I sure was a midterm in learning to program this washer that promised to handle my bulky bedding and my whitest whites.

And then I needed to pick up an order from a For Your Pleasure party because, hello, you know. And then it was dinner time and Hoylier came home and I had planned a nice meal and I had all this laundry to do.

So I reasoned that the sweat I worked up scrubbing five years of filth off the laundry room floor was a good cardio for the day.

Yesterday I was determined to do two things: Go to the gym and buy another pair of pants. Then I got the sinfully brilliant idea that walking the mall would be a great way to get my heart rate up AND I could shop for fatty fat-ass pants at the same time.

I am nothing if not a good time manager.

The mall walking went better than expected. I was concerned that I would get too distracted by purses and shoes (fat girls can always find purses and shoes that fit, which is why we commonly obsess about them. I should write a book about this shit) but I really did stay focused and circled the mall three times.

I stopped at Macy’s and found a pair of pants in EXTRA FAT WIDE ASS size that would fit. On sale, no less. I picked them up.

And then put them back on the rack.

If only having ONE THING that covers my thighs and does not have elastic at the waist or ankles isn’t enough incentive to get serious about dropping some of this weight, well then, maybe exposing my silky floral drawers to the other customers in the deli aisle when these jeans disintegrate will do it.

I am wearing these jeans until they fall off, either from being too big or from sheer overuse. And probably the only way to get back into my other pants is to put on the yoga pants and really exercise. Which, as I covered earlier, I hate.

I am way to complicated from a woman with only one pair of jeans.