I put on a pair of pants the other day, or at least I tried to. I was in for a shock.

Yeah, it seems all that holiday overindulging finally caught up with me. The problem: the holidays are long gone, but my overindulging kept going. It seems it happened overnight, but the truth is, I’ve been in denial for some time.

I blamed my shrinking underwear on the dryer. My stretchy jeans still fit, but that’s the danger of stretchy jeans; they keep stretching as you keep growing, and it’s not until you grab a pair of real jeans with an unyielding waistband that the ugly truth is revealed.

I forced myself into my cruel jeans and spent the rest of the day in a bad mood because that waistband kept reminding me, as it dug itself into my flesh, that I probably needed to go on a diet.

I hate diets! Who doesn’t? I used to think that because I exercise regularly I could eat anything I wanted. And believe me, I did. Nachos, beer, cookies – I needn’t worry. When those Weight Watcher’s commercials came on, I’d smugly tell myself, “Thank God I don’t need to diet!” Well here I am – and I’m not happy.

I didn’t have the guts to step on a scale. I told myself I’d wait a week, eat sensibly and then weigh in. The first thing I knew, I was cutting out was my beloved Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. It figures. My favorite beer packs about 300 calories per bottle. It had to go.

Next went the nachos, my go-to quick dinner for the entire family, loaded with beans, three cheeses and sour cream. (((Ital))) Hasta la vista. ((((end ital.))) I knew what my future looked like – for a while: salad, salad, salad. Within minutes I plummeted into depression.

I needed a Victoria’s Secret fix. That place always makes me feel better. I know most of the girls that work there, and they always make me feel good about myself. I walked in, grabbed a few things and headed for the dressing room. Maybe a new bra would lift my spirits. I picked out a pretty coral, lacy number in my size.

Well, it used to be my size! I fastened the hooks and got a look at my back in the mirror. Ahhh! Where did all those rolls come from? What the heck! I suddenly felt like the girl in the Willy Wonka movie who blows up like a balloon in a matter of seconds. (OK, I wasn’t purple, but it seemed I was getting bigger by the minute.) I couldn’t get that bra off fast enough. Believe me, there’s nothing like a three-way mirror to put things in perspective. I vow to never put one of those in my house.

The week went by slowly. I told everyone I was on a diet. People were shocked that I stopped drinking beer. It was easy. I drank wine instead. I did miss nachos, but the thought of washing them down with wine made me a little queasy, so I got over it. Less carbs, more protein – and salad, salad, salad.

Finally my week was over. Time to weigh in. Wow. I was glad I waited a week. The number was bigger than I thought, which meant that a week ago the number was horrifying!

That’s OK. I’ll keep pressing on. I have the support of my family. Everyone is trying to eat better now, including my husband. But you know men. All they need to do is stop eating butter for a week and 20 pounds drops off. It’s so unfair.

Now when those Weight Watcher commercials come on, I listen. I know it didn’t take me a couple weeks to pack this weight on, so it’ll take more than a couple of weeks to unpack it. My days of quaffing beer and wolfing down nachos without a care are probably gone for good. I hope one day I can enjoy a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale again … but it’ll probably be with a salad.