My metabolism has slowed down. It now requires work to fit into a 00P-sized dress. But I can’t complain too much; thirty years is a good run.
To fit into a dress for a black-tie event last Saturday, I had to skip dinner for the entire week. (I cheated by having really big lunches, but that’s neither here nor there.) Sure, I could’ve gone out and bought another dress, but I hate the malls during this season (or any other season, really) and nothing online stirred my interest enough to whip out the plastic. Besides, I have over a dozen dresses suitable for such an event and not a single one fit–not even the ones with the empire waists! That’s a bad sign. A really, really bad sign. An even worse sign is when the BF pats my tummy and looks hopeful.
Another two and a half years to go on the MBA, then my evenings are my own again and I can go get my butt kicked at the dojo four times a week.