From a no-bullshit reader named Maggie: The weight stuff is getting old. You wrote a book about your weight issues and it seemed at one point you were happy with yourself. Shit or get off the pot with this and stop feeling sorry for yourself.

FROM MOI: The weight stuff is getting old. And so am I, but “sorry for myself” isn’t how I’d categorize my feelings. It’s more that I’m mentally bitch-slapping myself into action. Because the truth is, I am happy with my bod; it’s just not happy with me. And my clothes fucking hate me. So, there’s that.

But, sweet Maggie (I love that name btw), I feel deliciously empowered when I remind myself that everything I do is actually a choice. We forget that sometimes. I’m not forced to do anything… save for taxes, death, and yes, the JCC bake sale where I’ll be making Red Velvet cake balls. Because balls are a good time.

Know what else is empowering? Sitting back to watch my mini-me parts scrap it out. There’s the part of me in a ruffled apron, all Anthropologie-style, who obsesses over bread puddings (omg, I have the best recipe ever!), who knows that no one remembers us for what we weigh—that our weights aren’t etched into our headstones. And with a marble rolling pin, she’s chasing the tyrant me (who unfortunately wears Lycra) who’s busy commanding that I eat clean and lean before the back of my neck starts to resemble a pack of hotdogs. That’s right, I get a front row seat, then recline with a bowl of imaginary cherries, snacking and loving up on the sweet me and the me who tends to complain about the pits. I’m just now beginning to accept and adore, quite frankly, both parts of me. Because we’re all like this about something. This happens to be my thing. As old as it is, if it’s not going anywhere, I might as well learn to love it (plus cherries have a low glycemic index).