The bad news: Hubby and I decided to stick close to home this year, so we won’t be celebrating Thanksgiving with any of our far-flung (read: Broken Arrow, St. Louis, Scottsdale, Vegas, etc.) family today.

The good news: We’re dining out with our little lady, so that means no yummy leftovers to weld themselves to my ass in the days to come.

If you ever want to stop yourself from over-eating — and it’s a personal choice, especially today, the funnest over-eating day of the entire year — have a little look-see at the calorie-counter on the elliptical or the treadmill.

This morning I was feeling so virtuous, hyperventilating through level 5 on the elliptical, set to The Hills because that’s the program that really drags you through the peaks and valleys and gets the ol’ heart pounding. After 30 minutes, I couldn’t get off that puppy fast enough.

And then I looked at the calorie meter. Drum roll…198.

Though I try really hard to live in my Barbie Bubble, a world in which no sad, depressing info ever breaks through, I’ve officially registered the fact that I can exercise super hard for half a freaking hour and still burn fewer than 200 calories.

This is why I’m not losing weight. I workout like a loony, but then I eat pretty much whatever I damn well please. Given my underactive thyroid (grrr…) and my age (double-grrr….), that isn’t a scenario that works for me anymore.

For fun (ha!), I just looked up the calorie-count of an average slice of pumpkin pie without whipped cream: 320. Then, since I was on a roll, I went ahead and sleuthed-out the calorie count of the average Thanksgiving dinner: 4500. Gross, right? So piggy-wiggy, and a total assault on your poor bod…

Seeing that makes me want to stick to Wee Lass-size portions. I can’t “just do it” in the gym, and then just undo it at the dinner table. Not if I want to be healthy, which I do. And not if I want to be a hot mama, which I totally do.