This morning I went shopping at Target, where they have state-of-the-art dressing rooms in which you can view your front and back simultaneously via well-placed mirrors.

It was between the mirrors that that I came to be intimately familiar with the chunks of cellulite glommed on to my outer thighs. Instead of freaking out about their presence, I spent several minutes hoisting the lumpy mounds and pulling them this way and that until I arrived at a couple of decisions:

1) The underwear that I thought was in pretty good shape for being six years old is really not.

2) There is no need for me to be eating candy and dessert and multiple treats every day. From now on, I’ll only be ingesting junk food from Friday through Sunday, and then, only in moderation. I swear to this.

When I called Molly, the friend with whom I used to frequent Wendy’s in my pre-Fast Food Nation days, to tell her of my nutritional resolution, she told me it was the “stupidest f'ing idea she’d ever heard.”

We’ll see.