Alas, my metabolism has slowed down much since high school and college. I keep remembering the time when Christina, Patty, and I were at Kenneth Cole in Las Vegas, and we decided to share one dressing room for the three of us. I think most of us think we're smaller than we really are, so we got this shirt to try on in an extra small. It's one of those tight-fitting tops that you can where to a New Year's party, and it has a zipper on the side so you can wear it easily. However, we all had trouble getting the darn top on, and the two of us had to physically help the one person who was trying her hand at the extra small top. At one point, as we were trying to shove a head and two arms into the proper place, one of us gave up and yelled "Abort! Abort!" because it was clearly a failing mission. Ah. Good times. Our sides were hurting from the pain of laughter. I think you had to be there in order to understand how funny it was, and in order to laugh along with me as I tell this story.

Anyways, my point is, my body is not sixteen years old anymore. Nor is it twenty. Nor 25. Nay, it is now 26. I have to debate with myself now before I consume a Haagen Dazs ice cream bar. Oh well. And I most certainly choose to eat it every time. So much for self-control. Late twenties. Bring it on.







Here's me eating a crepe in Paris. Jambon and fromage (ham and cheese, I forgot the French word for "and"). A crepe in Paris is truly a wonderful experience.