How I know I'm fat

Me thinks I'm still carrying my Midwest weight.

I thought I had lost a few pounds since returning to the Upper West Side. My cardiovascular activity between trips to the dog run and long walks around the block have increased twofold. But so has my intake of gourmet doggie biscuits.

This weekend, I was transported to Carter's house in a black Sherpa bag with wheels ($139 at Target; Bee's mom is the best!). It's like traveling like a true VIP—Bee doesn't have to throw her back out by carrying me on her shoulder; I don't have to spend 30 minutes squished diagonally in the bag.

But the weight limits on the large Sherpa bag is only up to 22 pounds.

I weigh 28 pounds.

While Bee tugged me four blocks from the subway to Carter's house, the bag smoothly rolled along the sidewalk, even skipping the ground in between the cracks. The bag itself was spacious and comfy, too. But then, we heard the scrape of the bag's nylon against the concrete. I thought it was because my belly made the middle of the bag sag.

No.

It was because I was so beyond the maximum wight limit for the bag, that one of the front wheels broke off from the stress.

And if that wasn't bad enough, another front wheel broke off on our way back to the
subway on our way home.

I'm tempted to declare myself on a diet as of right now. No carbs. No fats. No peanut butter until I lose five pounds. But frankly, I'm not the dieting type.

I'm going to celebrate my big-bonedness!

There's more of me to love!!! I am woman—more woman than ever—hear me roar!!

Besides, we know the real problem here. Bee needs to simply...buy me a bigger bag!