Julia has my book. The book that contains my secrets, my obsessions, the true sum of my parts.

Julia has my food diary and since she took it on Tuesday night I’ve been uneasy knowing that she will read it, analyze it and get to know me in a way that I have only recently begun to know myself.

Scan the pages and you’ll learn that I like cheese and bread, that I drink a lot of coffee and that some days I just can’t write it all down. You’ll see spurts of energy and immense dedication followed by days of partial entries and random notes.

She’ll learn that last Saturday I ate a slice of cake on my husband’s birthday. It was a cookie dough ice cream cake from Cold Stone that I am sure accounted for every calorie and fat gram I needed during the day, so going back and recording that I only had a small garden salad for dinner just didn’t seem to matter.

Will she know that the bagels I like for breakfast are 100 percent whole wheat, and that the cheese that accompanies my salads and snacks is from the loved skinny cow? Will she believe me when I say that all of my lattes are made with skim milk?

In some cases yes, because I wrote it down. But the details are not recorded in every case, and without me by her side to discuss each meal, each missed journal entry and each food decision, Julia may come to her own conclusion about me and my eating habits.

There’s potential for the analysis to be harsh.

One month into the weight loss challenge and I already have a good week of poor food journaling under my belt. I haven’t won a weekly challenge yet and there is documented proof as to why I’m not walking away with the prize.

I’ve got all the right excuses; time-consuming sedentary job, young child who needs time and attention, husband who is supportive but still carried Girl Scout cookies over the threshold into our home; but what I am struggling with is the motivation to get over those humps.

Yes, I want to be healthier and lose weight, but last night I just wanted to eat dinner, put on my pajamas and go to bed. After a long day it was just all that I had left in me to do.

I haven’t explained away my mistakes in my food journal and have let it serve, at its best, as a just-the-facts account of my eating and exercise habits. Ultimately that’s how the cookie crumbles, so to speak.

Words aside, if your pants are big, your pants are big. Cake simply has more calories and fat than celery. End of story.