No, I don’t want your leftover birthday cake.

Whenever I begin to engage in my monthly self-pity party, my mother reminds me that there are people who are facing bigger challenges than her over-caffeinated, underpaid daughter.

Take, for example, African women, who today discovered the contraceptives they’ve been using to reduce unintended births, actually double their risk of contracting HIV. And then there are the Greeks, whose persistent near collision with economic default, has created an insurmountable homelessness problem.

But, of course, being the self-deprecating gal I am prone to be, I can dismiss their troubles as trivial to my obstacle of the day: leftover birthday cake at work. You see, I was blessed cursed with child-bearing hips. And with every bite of carbohydrates, I just become more and more equipped to bare a 20-lb baby.

Part of it is genetic. My mother, in fact, loves to tell unsuspecting acquaintances that I was a premature baby, and that despite this, I was close to 9-lbs. Just imagine how large I would have been had she carried to full term.

But part of it is that I am a foodie. I love to taste, to devour, to experience the various culinary delights that living in a multicultural home in a multicultural city has to offer. And both my waistline and my hips are a testament to my culinary privilege.

However, as it is the start of the Jewish New Year, I have determined to set the most stereotypical New Year’s Resolution ever– lose weight. And in doing so, I am foregoing the all too frequent indulgence in leftovers at work. Yesterday it was christening cupcakes. Today it was a baby’s birthday cake. And tomorrow it will be bar-mitzvah babka. Notice how no one brings in leftover carrot sticks to crunch on.

This resolution will certainly be a test of my will power, but thanks to the backing of my partner in crime, the Gentile Giant, I believe I can and will succeed. I am a Wellesley woman; hear me roar!



One response to “No, I don’t want your leftover birthday cake.

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