With every New Year comes New Years Resolutions. The most popular is losing weight. We make our lists and publish them. This year I am determined to fulfill my resolutions. I am losing weight.

So why are you eating a slice of carrot cake while writing this? You ask sarcastically. Well let me better answer your question with a question: Who died and left YOU “food police”? Put down your fork and walk away from the table, you say? Okay, you don’t have to get nasty. I promise I’ll start after dessert is over.

I confess. Book me, Dano. I am hereby accused of reckless eating. Jot down my confession: I’ve gotten used (literally) to the Christmas holidays. Is that so bad?

Shouldn’t that be considered a crime of passion or something? Can’t I get rid of minor charges, like reckless crossing? Why should I make a federal case of my growing waistline?

Stop saying, “You know, once you go to eat on vacation, you will never stop feeling pain.” Are you, dear conscience, a poet and don’t you know it? Should you rhyme all the time? Groan if you want, just tell me one thing, are you gonna end up with that meatball hero?

It all started on Thanksgiving. No, more like Halloween. Yes, the infamous All Hollow Eve. When one-eyed pirates and fairy princesses ask you for treats. I prefer to deceive them.

My trick is to open the door with my mouth full. So what child? I ate all the good sweets and left you only the sour tarts and waxed lips. I had to do it. It was in self defense. A meter-tall Spider-Man stalked me. It was to eat or not to have more Hershey Special Darks to eat!

Three musketeer indulgences turn into pumpkin pie indulgences. And then … it’s Thanksgiving. I love the spirit of the occasion. You give thanks, really something that we should all be doing much, much more. Try it with me. I’m thankful for the squash, cranberry sauce, and stuffed mushrooms. I’m thankful for the garlic mashed potatoes and broccoli-rab. Didn’t it feel great? Gratitude is truly a virtue. And let me tell you, all that appreciation sure makes a girl hungry. There, to answer the call of hunger, there is a Gingerbread Man fresh out of the oven who looks at me with those big blue M&M eyes and asks me the question:

“Is there ever a good time to start a diet?”

Reindeer Cookie, wise beyond her age, responds, “Not really. Just like there’s never a perfect time to have a baby.” Wow, the reindeer cookie is deep. It must be a Buddhist. To prevent him from talking, they eat him. Again, self defense.

There has to be a good time to start eating well. And I’m going to find it, by God. Well it’s definitely not December, I can tell you a lot. I have a place to go every night of the week in December. Retouching from one side to the other, from one Christmas party to another. I haven’t “partied” this much since weekends in the college dorm where I woke up in my clothes from last night and had cold pizza for breakfast. All that Christmas party is sure to be hungry again. No problem. There is food everywhere in December. Neither does any old and ordinary food. Exotic, strange, and even terrifying things come out at this time of year in an Italian home: Baccala, Scungille (and the rest of the Sopranos), all battered and fried and threatening to raise your cholesterol if you don’t respect them.

But wait, this relentless food frenzy doesn’t end with the birth of baby Jesus. Just a week later and there’s another baby who wants her accessories, Baby New Year (yes, it’s a diaper-wearing gimmick, but we lured it in anyway). The ball drops, people kiss, and we eat and drink until we forget, or at least until next year.

January 1 arrives. I wake up feeling bloated and bulky, but I still don’t feel guilty. Hey, it’s New Years Day; everyone is out of work, the family gathers for a big dinner. Not just any dinner, but the mother of all dinners. Yes, on New Year’s Day you eat like a Sunday in an Italian house. Dinner begins at 1:00 p.m. with the anti-pasta shortly after breakfast and ends at 8:00 p.m. with the mixture of nuts, espresso and ricotta cheese cake. January 1 is another good day to eat, but it’s not a good time to start watching your weight in any way.

January 2 arrives. Arrive around 7pm after you come home from work, sit in front of the TV with some leftovers from the holidays (honey balls and a glazed ham) when a commercial for diet pills appears, then an Ab Roller commercial and then the BowFlex ad. You’re bombarded with hot, shiny, gorgeous bodies on the big screen, while all you feel is flabby and fizzy. You swear I’ll never eat like this again. I’m sick of myself This is the year I’m going to be cut, ripped, ripped apart, ripped (and any other violent word you can think of). She fantasizes about an amazing new sex life. Write your resolutions on a piece of paper while eating maple and walnut ice cream from the bowl.

Two weeks pass. Every day you swear that you will start eating well. But hey … after all, it’s still January. Very early in the year. Also, January is such a cold and monotonous month. I will start again in February.

Ahhh, February 1 arrives. It’s time! I dust my treadmill and buy some fresh produce just to remind myself that February 1 is Aunt Ann’s birthday. And she makes the best suasage and pepper heroes of all time. You wouldn’t want to offend her for not partaking of that Fudgie the Whale Carvel cake I just bought you, right? I will have to start on Monday. Monday, no doubt.

Monday falls in the middle of the month somehow and before you know it, it’s Valentine’s Day; A day when showing love means filling your partner with mouse-stuffed raspberry truffles and chocolate roses wrapped in techno-colored foil. Wonderful, just wonderful … one’s butt becomes a tangible example of the effects of high fructose corn syrup.

I see little Cupids cut out of pink paper in restaurants taped to the wall. I see gold heart-shaped boxes with red ribbon saying “Hello, lover.” Miniature teddy bears with fleshy smiles stare at me seductively. It is that time of year. And I am a fan of romance. Guilty of the charges. So sue me, give me a ticket; A moving food violation, anything stupid you can think of. This is how I roll. Why should I try to change myself to look like the girl in the Brazilian Fat Blasting Dance video? I am not Brazilian and I am not ruining anything. Call me a conscientious objector.

So there you have it. That is my confession. Those are the facts that have brought me to this moment right now.

Before you take me … to that cold gym in the suburbs … with three square meals of rice cakes every day … please give me one more week to say goodbye to everyone who is dear to me. Leave me here in my fat elastic waist pants. Leave me where I am, with my box of assorted chocolates; each piece bit slightly so you can see inside.

Give me a week. Yes, that’s … a week! We have come across the answer to Gingerbread Man’s question. I declare that the first Monday in March is a perfect time to start a diet.