For perhaps the first time ever, I don't think I'm worried about the inevitable weight gain that seems to come with the holidays. First of all, He-Who-Trains has forbidden me from getting anywhere near a scale for a month. Even if I gained, I wouldn't know it. But more than that, I don't really think that's a possibility-- unless of course, I'm gaining muscle. (This, of course, is where He-Who-Trains would jump in and tell me that I should let him body-fat calliper me. This Pudgy Parson is getting braver, but not that brave yet. No fat-pinchy things near me. No way. Nuhuh.) The things that have been tempations for me are not this year. I've had nary a glass of eggnog (or even just what makes eggnog fun). I think I could probably make a whole batch of my favorite Christmas cookies and not even have a bite of the dough. I may not have any idea what the scales say (and that's a blessing, because at least they aren't saying "One at a time, please."), but I'd call that progress. I've fought it every year. Every year, I've felt out of control of my body. Every year, I was certain that I was just doomed. Every year, I let myself believe that gaining weight is just what people do at the holidays. Every year, I've felt gross well into January, and then proceeded to make the same stale resolutions.
Maybe not this year. Because this year, I'm in charge. This year, there are things I want more than Christmas cookies.