Let’s call this the BEFORE photo.

Dang, it’s been a week. I’ve been adjusting—sitting in bed, eating Sees Candy, and wishing Jillian Michaels laryngitis.

Ok, only part of that last sentence is true.

I’ve been meaning to come back and write the truth of turning forty, but you know how it goes. Right? And really, what do I know? Forty isn’t that much different from 39, it just sounds older. Although, I’m convinced there is a time-bomb in my DNA that alerted my system: HEY! She’s OLDer, go on the fritz and screw with her psyche a bit. I mean, seriously? Acne? And I don’t even want to talk about the 13 lb weight gain.

Ok, I don’t want to talk about it, but I will. I posted the photo to give you some idea. A close observer will notice I look a bit sleep deprived. I’m not. I just put on weight in my face. My chin and eyelids apparently have room for more fat. Who knew?  You’ll also notice the, uh, boobage (as the ever so articulate men in my family call it.) Oh yeah, when Wende gains weight she gains it EVERYWHERE. Her face, her ass, her ankels (WTF?) and damn, girl, you’ve got boobs!

That should make me happy, right? And it would, if I didn’t bump into a third chin looking down to admire my new cleavage. You can’t win them all.

So, despite the great rack I’m sporting and exaggerating about, I’ve decided that it’s time. Time to really look over my habits and fix the problem. I had the great misfortune to visit the Doctor’s office the day after my birthday and well, that’s all I’m going to say about it. But it did convince me that if I want to get this weight off, I’m on my own and it’s time to call in qualified reinforcements.

Enter Jillian Michaels. I hate her.

Ok, that’s too strong, but really—she’s getting on my nerves. So, while I’ve been remiss at blogging, I have been  jumping jacking my newly acquired boobage right out of its exercise bra. Observant readers  and people on facebook who I’m spamming with updates will notice the new page (way up there, up, up, see it?) called “Dear Jillian“.  I’m keeping track of all my grievances against the ridiculously in shape Ms. Jillian. You know, in case I ever meet her. (Dear  Jillian, you might want to be thinking about a restraining order now. My name is spelled with 2 “e”s)

I’ve heard from a few of you that you have this stupid exercise tape and haven’t bothered to even take the shrink wrap off the darn thing. Um. If I’m suffering, you should be too. Consider this a kick in the pants to get moving. See, this way you can be snarky on your blog too. Write a Dear Jillian page and I promise to come and commiserate. We’ll start a revolution.

And speaking of commiseration, I apologize that the page won’t let you leave comments. It’s a template thing. And, sadly, my darling IZ is too flooded with real work to fix it. So, if you have something pithy to say or add well, write your own damn blog, er email me or comment anywhere.

So, summing up: Forty isn’t bad. Wende has boobs and a new-found nemesis and is flaming a revolution.

I’d say that’s a very good start to a new decade. Fan any flames, pour kerosine on any fires lately? Dish in the comments already!