Or maybe not so modern.

Today was one of those days. Nothing sounded better when I came home than slipping into a pair of sweatpants, a ratty t-shirt, and a sweatshirt and pigging out on comfort food.

On go the (2nd) favorite pair of sweats (1st pair being in the laundry–told you it was one of those days) and whoa–when did these become capris? I’m not only showing ankle (God forbid), I’m showing some calf. Either my ass has grown so much since the last time these babies left the closet that it’s pulling up the bottom of the pant leg or they’ve shrunk. A lot. I’m preferring shrunk (as I wolf down more comfort food).

Why is it comfort food? I feel guilty after I eat it, it makes me uncomfortable even when wearing shrunken sweatpants, and I have to eat it while those who love me and have to listen to me obsess about my weight aren’t looking. Is that comfort?

How does one sock in a pair develop a hole when its mate looks healthy and hale? and whole?

And when will the chocolate start to impact my mood? I’ve heard it on Dr. Oz or somewhere. Maybe it was Harry Potter. Chocolate staves off heart disease, improves memory function, restores you after a Dementor attack, and improves your mood by releasing happy hormones. But how long does that take? Maybe I should have snorted it. And eaten some. But I draw the line at a chocolate suppository. It’s good to have boundaries.