Dear Boule,

You don't mind that I call you that, do you? It just dawned on me that all this time I've been too busy pretending that no one else could see you to actually give you a name. You've been so much of an overachiever that I really can't honestly refer to you as a muffin top anymore. Boule seems closer to the truth.

I'm going to get right to it: we need to break up. I've known for a long time that you weren't good for me, and I've done the requisite amount of passive aggressive moves to try to get you to leave on your own. I've dressed you in conspicuously tight shirts that made you look like misplaced sausage links, hoping you'd cringe at that stolen glance in the window and sheepishly slink away. 

But like any dysfunctional half of a relationship, you refuse to take the hint. You're still here, loud and proud, sticking around and staking your claim. You've even invited guests who've taken a certain liking to my neck, ankles and thighs. Not cool, Boule. Not cool. I thought we were exclusive, you know? So, game on. You're going to make me be the bitch, and say the things that are hard to say, and–yes– make me sweat to get you to leave. And that's fine. 

When did I finally realize that we want different things in life? Monday in yoga class, if you must know. You've not only become a little too comfortable flopping over the waistband of my yoga pants; you officially crossed the line and totally got in the way of me and my extended triangle pose. Having you butt in when I'm trying to get my stretch on is just too much. Now we're done.

I write for this magazine. I do NOT look like this
in yoga class,

You have to understand that this isn't easy for me. I have my fair share of guilt in our relationship. I know that I've plied you with all sorts of yummies; the sugar and butter in the salted  caramel brownies, chocolate chip cookies and cupcakes lulled us both into thinking you made me as happy as a poked Pillsbury Doughboy. I'm not trying to hurt your feelings, but I was totally faking it. Sorry.

I'm not completely ungrateful for our time together, though. I've appreciated some of what you've done for me over the years. Really, I have. I'm no dummy, and I've watched far too many episodes of Dr. Phil to know that if I wasn't getting something out of our relationship I would have kicked you to the curb long ago. Truth is, I've been just comfortable enough being the fat, sometimes witty girl instead of the woman I know I can be. I hate the political talk around being fat because–to me–the reasons a person stays unhealthy are intensely personal and usually have nothing to do with food or exercise or even motivation. I don't even think I know or understand many of the reasons I've encouraged you to stick around. That said, it's time.

I don't blame you for clucking your tongue and rolling your eyes, and yes, I know; I've said it before. You played along, pretending to go away for just a bit but at the first sign of trouble there you were; the ubiquitous bad boy and best friend rolled into one, cloaked as soothing sugar and empty calories, knowing I'd be helpless after the first bite. You were right, but now I see you for what you really are and, truth is, I'm just not that into you anymore.

Before you ask, no, we can't be friends. I know that it's the PC thing to do when you break up, but real pals don't let friends bust out of their fat clothes for as long as you've let me slide. So you'll need to find another BFF from now on, because I'm aching to do the superficial thing and trade you in for a hot new outfit and a killer pair of heels. 

If it makes you feel better, you can totally call me names and snicker behind my back. Go ahead, call me shallow and laugh when my downward dog looks more like a wilting swan. I can take it.