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I'm riding atop a thousand pound wrecking ball wearing nothing but a pair of ginormous granny panties, Doc Martens and the smile I was born with.

Oh, and I'm jamming a Mars bar into my mouth as I swing precariously to and fro. Did I mention I'm just a tad overweight perched on this implement of destruction? To further underscore my girth, the chain begins to slowly break, one link at a time. This does nothing, however, to deter the progress of the Mars bar consumption as this task is seen to completion commencing in finger licking and then...

CLANK...BANG!!!

I'm jolted to consciousness in the wee hours of the morning, the only thought crossing my mind is the question of how I can possibly get my hands on a Mars bar this early in the morning.

Yeah, I'll admit. Maybe I'm a little stressed about the extra pounds I've put on. And yeah, perhaps I'm ūber sensitive to my over-40 body image status, what with the constant parade of taut 20somethings gracing the media lately. How dare they remind me I'm aging and can't drop the last of the stubborn baby weight - seven years later?

My dream is my subconscience egging me to put down the chips and reach for a bar bell. As I type this, I should be at the gym on the treadmill watching Food Network.

Why can I not commit to a diet/exercise regimen and stick to it? For the love of all that is holy (like Swiss cheese and that fresh baked bread that you find big holes in, but it's okay because if the butter falls through, you can still catch it with your tongue).

The truth is, I know exactly why I can't commit. I'm stressed. I'm bored. The last three years were really rough. I'm on anti-depressants, I'm going through menopause and I like food. Okay? There, I said it.

Oh, and I'm lazy. I also spend countless hours parked on my tush typing away. And as much as I want to fit into those new jeans that I bought in a size too small because "Hey, I'm going to lose weight soon," as good as it felt four whole years ago to be only a pound above my target weight, able to wear anything in my closet with confidence and to hear compliments from my husband and children instead of little jabs like "Better get that Twinkie before Mom does," I still rationalize it all away. I tell myself that it could be worse.

But the truth of the matter is that I'm on the last belt loop. I tore my favorite jeans a few months ago. I'm choking myself trying to do the last button on my pants. I'm tired and grumpy and lacking in confidence. I have the potential to look better at my age and I'm squandering it. For what? Some jalapeño potato chips and a French dip? Oh, that sounds so good.

This ends today! Starting now I will recognize that the salty/sugary contraband in the cupboard is for the kids and is nothing but poison to me. I will cut the bread, cut the sugar, cut the crap. Literally. And I will exercise. That's right. Ho ho, ho ho, it's to the gym I go. Salad will be my closest ally.

And because I'm really serious...no more Food Network on the treadmill.

- Linda Roy

Linda Roy is a humorist/writer/musician living in New Jersey with her husband and two boys. Her blog elleroy was here is a mix of humor and music she likes to refer to as "funny with a soundtrack." She is managing partner and editor-in-chief at the politics and pop culture website Lefty Pop, and she also writes and records a musical humor column at Funny Not Slutty. She's contributed to Aiming Low, Sprocket Ink, In the Powder Room, Mamapedia, Bonbon Break, The Weeklings and Earth Hertz Records. She's thrilled to have been selected as a BlogHer Voice Of the Year for 2014. When she's not snarking and kvetching, she's fronting the Indie/Americana band Jehova Waitresses and being social at Twitter, Facebook, Pinterest, Google+ and Bloglovin'.