I hate numbers. I hate counting. I hate anything that requires precision. And I LOATHE dieting.

I feel like I should be good at dieting, but I’m not. I’m pretty terrible at it, actually. I think I might be one of those ridiculous people who don’t “count” the bites they took while cooking (a lot of bites), what was put in their cup of coffee this morning (a lot of half & half and real sugar), or even realize they just ate a few handfuls of Blast O’ Butter popcorn out of their husband’s bowl without even thinking about it. I do all of these things, yet expect immediate results when I start a new regimen.

CALORIES CONFUSE ME! What does this even mean? Seriously.

Sometimes I think to myself that it’s silly to worry about a few extra pounds. I should just enjoy myself, whip up more Paula Deen recipes, park my butt on the couch, unbutton my too-tight jeans, and maybe take a nap. But the fact of the matter is, heart disease, diabetes and thyroid problems run in my family. I don’t want my dislike of counting and my love of full-fat cream ruin my future health and quality of life.

It’s time to woman up, learn how to count calories (UGH), force myself to work out, and be disciplined enough to follow some sort of long-term plan. Is it possible to be the kind of mom who cooks such good food that the kids look forward to coming home to it, even after they grow up and have families of their own — while at the same time looking amazingly great? For their age? I mean, without some assistance from a plastic surgeon?

I’m skeptical. But … time will tell.