I really have no good reason why I am still up —  except for being BF-less right now.

See. It makes a big difference when you have a fine smoking piece around you, wanting you to crawl into bed and fall asleep. It’s the most motivating sleep tactic ever. Works like a charm.

So it’s not my fault, it’s The BF’s, for leaving me all by my lonesome. What else am I to do but stay up late and indulge in late night food raids? I wonder if I’d drop those pesky five pounds if I stopped late night grazing? Probably. But that would just be no fun. I’ll keep these five and raise you a few cookies.

The other week, The BF said to me, as we were about to fall asleep and his arm was wrapping me, “please don’t get any thinner.”

NFW!

I could hardly believe it, nor contain myself. A comment like that is bound to wake up any girl. Of course, in my case, it more like jolted me wide awake and there I was, asking for confirmation.

Wait. You didn’t just say “don’t get any thinner” did you?! Me?! Thinner. Like implying as I am or must already be thin?! Me?!

I had to take a moment to let those gorgeous words soak in, you know, bask in them. Cause let’s be real — when you’re a former fatty, it’s hard to one day think of yourself in any terms that involve the word “thin”.

Plus, you never quite shake it. Well, maybe some of you out there who identify as being a childhood fatty can and have, but I haven’t — there’s still this part of me that is chubsville. I know it’s ridiculous, yet it’s there. It’s hard to shake.

Anyway. The BF didn’t actually leave me this weekend. He invited me along with. I know, so thoughtful. He’s off with his fam visiting the rest of the fam. And so I’m in — an invite with the fam. That’s confirmation right there.

I decided to stay for one reason: Aunt J.

With Gpa now being in the higher realm of the higher {doesn’t that sound all fancy spiritually smart? Gotta remember that one}, Aunt J is the closest I have to a grandparent. And I’m not about to let her off the hook too easily. She’s stuck with me alright.

I really want to make it a point to spend as much time as possible with her and enjoy these times while they are here.

You know what I don’t get? How one second it seems that it’s 10:15 and I just got off the phone with Maman, and now … now it’s 1:06 in the damn morning.

How does that happen?

And how, just how does it happen that I’m feeling super tired at 10:30 and am all: oh, I think I’ll go to bed soon. But I think it’s too early to go to bed. So I put on a load of laundry, because that’s accomplishing something and it’s one less thing I have to do tomorrow.

But then. Then I start waking up, just a little bit and I think, “let me go look that thing up on Google.” That “thing” which I can’t even remember now what it was because I end up looking at Louis Vuitton duffel bags, having heart palpitations and trying to reason out why I need one and just how much use it would get.

I do think there’s something luxurious about staying up late though, similar to the luxury of an afternoon nap. Just knowing you can do it and have the time and don’t have to concern yourself with waking up early.

Except that’s not really accurate in my case, because I have to wake up at 8:30 for Zen. Now I’m already trying to justify skipping. It wouldn’t be that bad, right? Just this once? I can sleep in. Oh, it would be so so nice.

This is a slippery slope. From here on out I can make up any reason not to get the Zen on. Dangerous, I tell you. And the second I think of these reasons, the more resistance I have to going.

Damn you, resistance. I curse you.

Because now I’m going to go. Just to show you up, resistance. You won’t get the better of me. At least not yet. Next Sunday could be a whole different story.

Easter. That was supposed to be the whole point of this post, but I got a little sidetracked. Similarly to Halloween, Easter in this crazy fam, was drama.

Drama, drama, drama.

There was always some problem or disaster. Typically focused around the egg hunt. Brother 2 would freak out. He’d get pissed that Brother and I were finding all the eggs.

Our hunts usually resulted in Brother 2 hurling his Easter basket at us, or some random tree. I hated all this and tried to either steer clear or help by giving him some of my eggs. Didn’t work.

There were a couple times we participated in huge, organized Easter Egg Hunts. You know those ones where they have the ribbon holding you back and they blow the whistle or some horn {French horn, in my memory case} and you’re off to the egg races.

I couldn’t stand these, precisely for the fact that almost every child there turned nasty and tried to beat you to any and every egg. Talk about creating serious competition and distaste for your fellow hunters.

Then there was the whole comparing Easter baskets between Brothers 1&2 and myself. Picking apart every little thing to make sure “you got something I didn’t” didn’t happen. Candy and chocolate trades immediately followed.

It’s all so comical now, looking back on it.

For a while there, we did the Easter Church service. I think we had a good consecutive stretch of 9 years, maybe even 10.

Is it alarming that it took me forever to even keep straight that Easter was the day Jesus rose from the dead, given the fact of how many years I attended church on this day? Don’t answer that.

Isn’t this picture hysterical? Or it could just be me that finds it so humorous {and tacky}. This is actually in the yard of one of my neighbors. It looks like it’s waiting to be shot off into outer space … or someone’s front window.

On that note, Happy Easter.