On: How Sundays mean I'm the Most Unattractive Human Being Ever

So. I have this thing where I don't eat sugar. (Yay getting baby weight off.) It's going really well. I've lost 2 pounds. I know, I know...that's like a sixth of what my newborn son weighs. But hey...it's two pounds that I'm no longer stuffing into my jeans. (I consider it a great personal failure that I've been rocking the muffin top for which I have so mercilessly mocked others for sporting.)

ANYWHOO...here's the thing about the no sugar deal...it wouldn't last a minute if I didn't give myself a cheat day. So Sundays (and date nights if my hubby wants to take me to ice cream) I cheat. Sundays are both glorious and foul. As proof, I offer you this confession:

As I write this, I'm eating ice cream and fudge topping. Seperately. Out of each respective container. With the same spoon.

Don't tell Shem.