Whining about the consequences of pouting

When I am in a foul mood, I am rather unmotivated to do little other than sit on the couch and eat ice cream while staring at the TV. Even that is wholly unsatisfying sometimes.
This situation has caused things to spiral out of control at home.
After choosing not to hold back on enjoying nearly every treat I saw and made over the holidays and my extended bad-mood binging, I now fit into only three pairs of pants, and loose-fitting shirts aren't chosen to create a look, but to avoid looks of disgust cast in my direction. My new wardrobe requirements have created a laundry situation, you may well expect, that I don't care to deal with.
Cooking is a lot of work, which is why poor Sean, who is dealing with a neck injury, has been living off of cans of soup and McDonald's.
I don't know if he didn't complain because he knew I was dealing with something or if he was afraid. I'm guessing it was a combo.


So after about three weeks of a slowly intensifying general disgust, imagine my shock when the first thing I found more appealing than ice cream is going to the gym.
Very good girl, Allie! You're a delightful surprise.
Please understand that this is not some overachiever weight-loss resolution - my goal is to fit into my pants. That's it.

The house was in an intolerable state - meaning I couldn't bare to sit around and stare at the filth - so while not really motivated, I cleaned the house and resolved the Fatty McButterball laundry crisis.

I am feeling much better and I'm not nearly as scary anymore. I expect to be fully operating in Pollyanna mode again sometime tomorrow.
Happy posts of crafts and food shall resume shortly.

On the schedule:

No-Knead Bread featured in the New York Times.
Finishing my slouchy cabled hat.