Hi, how are ya?

2020, what a blast in a glass, ha? Well, it’s been a hot minute since I’ve taken the time to actually write something, but today, I felt inspired. Maybe it’s the 70 degree sunshine, or the 4th cup of tea, or perhaps it’s having picked up an absurd amount of dog poop today, but whatever it is, here we are, so welcome.

At the beginning of this super fun pandemic I was killing it with the time managment. I was doing it all: working out in the morning or during lunch, eating healthy meals that I would cook everyday, keeping the house spotless, journaling, emailing friends and family, reading so many books, and saving money. I lost 17 lbs, paid off some debt and had a super clean and organized life. I was #quarantinegoals. But then, I don’t know man, summer came in and I was just…over it.

Restaurants opened back up and it became my personal mission to support the living shit out of them. I so badly missed the dining out experience that I wanted to go to restaurants constantly. Maybe it was the reintroduction of trans fats and simple carbs into my blood stream, but around this time I also became addicted to my couch. I’d get up at 6:30 and sit on the couch until I had to get ready to work. Gone were the long showers, sleek hair styles and flawless(ish) makeup of early quarantine. No, that time was better spent watching YouTube Amazon haul videos, makeup tutorials, and other foolishness, and alas, the messy bun, concealer, and chapstick look of the summer was born. Outfits? glad you asked. I had made a solid commitment to never wear sweats or leggings while I work from home in the beginning. But then I bought a few pairs of leggings and every last ounce of hope was drained from my chunky body. My look can now be described as somewhat of a style mullet…business on top, complete friggin white trash disaster on bottom.

Now that we are staring down the end of the 8th month, I’m trying to remotivate to get back to early quarantine Jill before the fancy winter blues kick in. It’s a slow process, but I believe I can get there, I MUST get there before the creators of Honey Boo Boo come knocking to offer me a show about being a secret shit show. Although, if any networks are looking for an overweight 42 year-old ginger with scoliosis, asthma, a janky ring finger, and a fresh mouth to join their television family, holla at ya girl.