A bitter(sweet) divorce.. with Hostess

Some shed tears into their beer. For the last 27 years, I've shed mine into ice cream.

Food and I have always had a love-hate relationship. The love part is easy. I remember Ben and Jerry's flavors more easily than I do the names of old friends. Hostess has provided me with two mistresses named Twinkie and Cupcake. And God bless the good folks of Dunkin' Donuts, whose bagels and muffins never cease to work their magic.

The hate part is tough. Indulgence, inevitiably, equals indigestion (isn't alliteration fun?) It also wreaks havoc on the waist line, a battle in which I've become quite the veteran.

I've never minded being a big guy, especially since I've never been anything else. It was around the 2nd grade when I became the fat kid. That's a hard realization, but one your classmates have no problem helping you recognize. Kids are taught not to judge others based on race, religion, or gender, but if someone wears bigger pants, you sure as hell better let Tubby know.

I was chubby in elementary school. Middle school brought a brief reprieve as my baby fat was introduced to puberty, but by my freshman year of high school, the bulge had once again taken hold. By senior year, I was downright corpulent, and by the time I got to college, I was in the first wave of marching band members called in for a uniform fitting, if you catch my drift.

I was practically the mascot of my fraternity, the butt of more jokes about food than any person ought to be in their entire lives. But for whatever reason, I felt my body type was part of my identity, and so I embraced the Farley in me.

But back trouble and eventual surgery brought more weight, and by the time I was ready to move away from my parents (for the third time), corpulent had ballooned into the danger zone.

I got serious for a while. The gym became my second home, and within a year, I'd dropped about 50 pounds. A pending trip to Israel was all the motivation I needed. I'd get fit, make a nice Jewish girl swoon, and all would be well in the world.

I didn't meet a nice Jewish girl. But when I returned, I remet a beautiful gentile lady who thinks I'm pretty swell. She's pretty wonderful herself, and come next summer, we'll be married.

It's been a terrific ride, but sure enough, Hostess has found her way back in through the occasional trip to the vending machine. Same goes for scones at Panera and whatever might look tasty inside a Starbucks display case. The pounds have come back, and something must be done.

I say let my wedding be my new motivation. As I write, I am 10 1/2 months away from saying "I do." By that time, I want to be 60 pounds lighter.

The gym is great, but dieting is what I need. With that, I have submitted myself to something I thought I'd never do... Weight Watchers. And just for the hell of it, I'm going to make effort a public one. Join me over the weeks to come, but please, don't bring any baked goods.

And with that, dear Hostess, I bid you adieu... except your delicious 100 calorie packs.