Someone snapped my photo recently and when I saw the picture, I just about dropped the cheesecake I was eating and nearly fell off the couch.

My name was in the caption, but surely they’d mixed me up with some puffier, pouff-ier, well, let’s just say it – fatter! – version of moi, right?

Sadly, no. It definitely was me. Looking horrifyingly like a dead ringer for the Michelin Tire Man – remember him? Growing up, he was one of my favorites. I liked him almost as much as the Pillsbury Dough Boy – who chuckled so adorably whenever someone nudged his round belly.

My crushes on chubby advertising characters aside, the picture sent shock waves through my dormant (since my divorce) vanity and I realized it was time to take immediate action.

Step One: Freak out. Oh. Good. Grief. Is this really what it’s come to? I have to work out and eat better? After all these years of thinking a “work out” meant taking a laptop to the park and working outside? After all these years of thinking French Fries counted as veggies?

Step Two: Weigh. Measure. Freak out again. Record results in huge poster taped inside fridge in hopes of shaming me into healthy eating. (Fat chance. I rarely open the fridge – it’s the freezer that holds me in its thrall: Ben and Jerry hootin’ it up in there with the bottle of hooch I keep on hand for emergencies … speaking of which ….)

Step Three: Drink massive martini to steady nerves for next phase: Search and Destroy! Empty cupboards of back-up boxes of Ho-Ho’s. Toss out camembert and café mocha. Tell Ben and Jerry to take a hike.

Step Four: Wipe remains of chocolate fudge fantasy from lips and begin mad search for sneakers. (Does anyone even call them that anymore?) Look under bed; get sidetracked by box of old – and I mean old – love letters from men who loved me pre-Michelin Tire days.

Two hours later, with pounding headache from memories of loves lost, I stuff the box back under the bed and wonder “What was I was looking for?” Rack brains, wonder into kitchen, open fridge for snack and remember … oh yeah, sneakers!

Step Five: Out the door finally! Keep firm grip on Draculian dread of bright yellow thing in sky; try to control separation anxiety caused by being farther than five feet from the nearest keyboard; wonder what that loud rasping noise is … realize it’s me trying to catch my breath; pray I don’t have a heart attack.

Ten minutes later, return home with healthy flush. Feel skinnier already!

Step Six: Inspired by success of ten-minute stroll, devote next thirty minutes to scrolling Internet for tips on how to lose weight without breaking a sweat or giving up pasta and pancakes. Find article that says something outrageous like “To maintain health and lose weight, experts recommend a daily minimum of thirty minutes of brisk walking.” Daily?! Thirty minutes?! Are they nuts?!

Step Seven: Daunted by the amount of energy and time and discipline it’s going to take to go from Michelin Tire-esque to Michelin Tire-less, I decide to take a break for lunch … and dinner.

Step Eight: Decide to have “final fling” before “starting over” tomorrow. Watch reality show The Biggest Loser for inspiration — while chomping away at a giant slice of pepperoni pizza and noshing on chocolate bunny rabbits I’d bought for Easter.

Step Nine: Go to bed feeling comatose from after-effects of pizza grease and cheap chocolate — but optimistic: tomorrow’s my fresh start, right?

Step Ten: Wake up next morning. Lumber to fridge. Stopped in tracks by sight of café mocha-less fridge and remember my vow – “Eat healthy! Exercise!”

Not sure I have the dedication it will take to go from Michelin-Tire-thighs to Mini-Me-size but as I slip on my “budge the pudge” shoes (yes, that’s my new name for them), I think … maybe … if it doesn’t rain … I just might.