sacrifice

So I made Craig read my most-recent blog posts earlier. When he was finished, I asked him what he thought.

"Very good honey. You are quite dedicated."

This, from the man who NYT begged to run their copy desk (that's my version of the story at least). I know I'm a good writer. I know I'm a bit funny. Why doesn't anyone else know it? And better yet, why doesn't anyone else know it and offer me a book deal and lots of money to do it?

I'm just as good as all the other fat-chick writers. My last name includes Lancaster, which I'd like to consider puts me on the same level as Jen. And I swear, the tales of me sweating all over the gym and mentally hating the gym rat next to me are HIlarious.

Actually, I think I already know what I'm missing.

Alcohol.

See, a couple summers back Craig and I included microbrews, liquor, and over-priced pretty drinks from various restaurant decks among our very own food pyramid (filled out by nachos, fried chicken and burgers. Hey, the nachos had lettuce!). And at the end of the summer, when I realized in a flash of brilliance, "hmm, I think I'm gaining weight," evenings at the three-pint max brewery were the first of the food groups to go. And since then, I've just not gotten back into the habit of drinking. Grad school was in the way, and I don't have that many hard-drinking friends anymore. And to be honest, since I quit smoking the stench of bars make me want to vomit prior to a single drop (in the good old days, I only threw up to drink more).

As it is, we have a wine fridge full of goodies we brought back from California. Three months ago. The best wine in the country, bought at the vineyard, and we haven't tapped it. My former self would be so disappointed. My current self just begs me to be in bed by 9.

But in the effort of accomplishing the life long dream of being a writer who gets paid for it (and doesn't ever have to cover a 4H cat show), I have decided I can do it. I will work out. I will write. I will explore food and self-esteem issues via the world wide web, allowing whoever would chance upon my blog to point and laugh or commiserate and champion.

And, I will drink.

Hey, it's all the name of having my chubby, double-chinned, beaming (and soon to be drunk) face on the jacket of a book. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.