I’m sorry I blamed you. Turns out it wasn’t you after all. It was me. I’m sorry for every time I cursed you in public fitting rooms and in the privacy of my own fickle closet.
I apologize for the derision, the snide comments about how you’re “slowing down.” And that scene in the doctor’s office when I politely but firmly refused to get on the scale, citing your utter incompetence? I’m sorry for that too.
You were good to me for most of my life. Remember back in 1983 when you let me eat giant bowls of vanilla ice cream, big globs of peanut butter and granola without consequence? Or that stretch in the fall of 1998 when I enjoyed hot apple pie à la mode every night.
I miss those days.
I just want to say, I get it. I’m willing to take responsibility for my actions — the way I grabbed a handful of nuts every time I walked past the jar, the peer pressure induced consumption of office birthday cake, the delicious goodies I ate to avoid hurting the chef’s feelings. Most of all, I apologize for the sense of entitlement I felt because I’m nearly 50-years old and I think I’ve earned the right to eat whatever I want.
I assume you’ve moved on and I don’t blame you for that. You’re probably hanging poolside right now with some skinny, nubile girl who speaks kindly of you as she wolfs down a double bacon cheeseburger.
I’m willing to do whatever I can to make amends for the nasty things I said, the sorry way I treated you. I’ve cut out the evening noshing, I’m monitoring my portions and I’ve stepped up my workouts. I’m not too proud to say I’m courting you.
Perhaps we’ll never again enjoy the symbiotic relationship we once had. But, really, can’t we be friends?