Here I go again, 90lbs heavier than where all the ‘experts' tell me I should be. And so for probably the 200^th time in my 43 years, I am swallowing that bitter pill named ‘diet.'

I swear to God I could probably write my own self-help bible on diets. I'm kidding myself when I think I need expert help, I am a diet ‘Professor.' I've done most of them at one time or another. Low-carb, which leaves you with dog breath and scary poop, so even if you are losing a ton of weight, it's unlikely anyone will find you more attractive. The all-liquid diet that makes you so desperate, you turn into the human equivalent of a rabid hallucinating dog. Cabbage Soup diet - not only do you stink from the combined effects of the cooking and farting, but so does your home, your clothing and your poor pet. The Cereal ‘lose a jeans size in two weeks' diet, but who wants to live mainly on cereal? Various pre-packaged delivery diets, which if nothing else, are guaranteed to make your bank account lighter. Weightwatchers which turns you into a human calculator, but in my experience does work - well only as long as I stick to it.

And therein lies the big problem - commitment. Diets are a whole level of commitment that I suck at, apparently. I should be widely known as Queen Yoyo. I do great for a few months, dump many pounds, feel better, fit in my skinnier jeans, generally love myself more....and then the rot sets in. I find myself inexplicably with an empty chocolate bar wrapper in my cheating hand, the bread levels in the area undergo a sudden depletion, I start seeing bacon everywhere and I crave curry like it's a mineral deficiency in my body. Without warning I have relaxed back into my fat suit. 

It's not like I don't know what I'm doing. I will occasionally sneak on the scales and sigh, but then I think, ‘well I'm still lighter than I was, so I'm good. I can turn this around anytime and get back down there,' but the next thing I know, it's a 45lb mountain I have to conquer yet again. And now I hate myself. I hate the fact I'm back in my Spanx vest to hold in my traitorous ‘under boobs' area, my wedding band cuts off my circulation, the big pants are on and my ‘moon' face stares back at me in the mirror. Why oh why didn't I stop the rot as soon as it set in? 

Sometimes I wonder if I have been a cave woman in a previous life, scavenging to find a decent meal and now my body is set to crave, hunt, over-consume and store indefinitely. Or maybe I was stuck on a desert island with only fruits and nuts to survive on - and my vivid imagination to keep me in touch with reality of course. Yes I can come up with many excuses for my dieting failure, but facts are facts, and after twenty five years of obsessing daily about the size of my belly and thighs, I am no further forward in winning the war. It is without doubt the area of my life over which I have had the least control and which frustrates me the most.  

But this time I have decided to approach it differently. First of all I am letting it all out on paper, hoping this will be the therapy I need to get me past the issues I so clearly have somewhere deep in my psyche. I am ignoring the expert opinion that I need to lose 90lbs. A couple of years ago I lost 40lbs, the same 40 that have now become 45. I was looking at some pictures last night and I looked so much better with just those 40lbs gone. I remember feeling great and fitting more comfortably in all my clothes. Basically I was happy. I'm also accepting that maybe I'm not going to fit into the range for my height, but every pound I lose will make me healthier and happier. So I am going to take whatever I can get in poundage lost and then work at maintaining it, until my body just settles in at a lighter weight for a while. Last night I even broke out my long neglected treadmill.

Ah exercise - now that's a whole other side of the equation!