Just call me Humpy.

I am married to probably one of the healthiest and fittest guys I have ever known. Well, aside from Chris Evans. He is just delicious. *drool*

Aherm.

And while I admire my hubby's focus on all things health-related and his occasional burst of excitement over the latest protein powder gag oops, I mean, yummy! he's purchased, I, on the other hand, prefer the Couch Method. As in I sit on it. The Couch.

Oh, don't get me wrong. I've attended hubby's Zumba classes quite a number of times, and Jabba the Hutt I am not...at least, not on my good days. (PMS days? Ehh, you better have a Snickers bar in one hand and a chair to fight me back with in the other.)

Hubby loves me at the weight I am at, and is constantly assuring me of that. I've never felt pressure from him to change anything, and because of that, my own self-confidence has boosted to new levels that I didn't really know during my teens and 20's, unfortunately. In other words, there are days where I don't absolutely loathe the way I look.

Progress! I take my victories in stride.

I am, however, my own worst critic. Most women are. Everyone else around them can assure them all they want; the result is still the same with most when confronted, face to face, with (cue the dramatic music) The Mirror of Atrocious Realities.

*screams* *faints* *recovers* *has a snack*

You know how the process goes:

Ugh, is that a MUFFIN TOP? Yes, yes it is. I know it because it resembles the one I had for breakfast.

And are those....oh no.....LINES on my face?! 

Don't even get me STARTED on my sagging butt. They look like two deflated camel humps.

I had even more reason to bemoan everything pertaining to me, myself and my deflated humps when, in an effort to get a head-start on our move in a month, I lifted a couple pieces of luggage, and then realize a couple hours later....OW.

My arms screamed at me as only triceps that obviously haven't lifted weight of that kind (or any kind, really) could. At first, I didn't know what could cause such pain, until I did a mental check of the past 24 hours of events and realized what caused my arms to feel like a sadistic little arm fairy was pushing hot needles into them.

While laughing maniacally.

And eating my favorite ice cream. Just to mess with my head.

WHAT. Fairies could eat ice cream. Don't look at me like that. I get enough judgment from The Mirror of Atrocious Realities, thankyouverymuch.