My best friend just sent out an Evite for what sounds like a great birthday party, where we will be eating delicious Moroccan food and watching belly dancers.

Although elated to be invited, I admit, the invite got me to thinking, and not in a good way. Belly dancing, eh? Dancing bellies.

I went to pick up my rent cheque today, and on the way back I tried on some outfits at Benetton. Ouch. Their lovely pink linen dress, size M? Not zipping up. Their delightfully deconstructed graphic-T in a size L? No sir. When I cast my mind back to ponder what in the hell could have made me inflate in such a way that nothing at all in the Benetton store, including the “stretch” capris, fit me, I had a revelation. I don’t exercise anymore, and I’m eating crap.

Let’s take yesterday. Admittedly, I was feeling a little blue, sitting around the house, freaking out about moving, all by myself. But is that any reason to chow down into four fudgesicles and a fudge drumstick? And follow them up with two cokes, a plate of chicken fingers and several hours of reclining my fat ass on a beanbag chair watching serialized television on DVD, without even the benefit of commercial breaks to encourage me to walk around? NO.

There is no excuse for such laziness. My Mum might call it “contentment”, but I choose the slightly more critical term “sloth” or perhaps “indolence”. Our house is built for comfortable lounging, and it has sucked me in. That, and all my gym clothes and shoes are packed in boxes. But these are weak excuses.

Will I do anything to remedy my encroaching pudginess?

Scary but truthful answer: I’m not sure.