January comes around and it’s inevitable: I am a whale. I float around, not fitting into jeans, eating everything in sight. I sing my sad, sad song to mourn the end of another holiday season. I stock my fridge with veggie platters, pat myself on the back, and snarf peppermint Oreos when no one is looking. My yoga pants tore the other day and I almost cried at the thought of wearing non spandex material. My motto: if it doesn’t have an elastic waistband, I burn it in a fit of rage.
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