October 2025 - Victoria Toumit's Blog

Let’s be real.

Every spring, we all try to “prep for summer” like we’re auditioning for Baywatch: cutting carbs, squatting like it’s a spiritual practice, and believing one green smoothie will erase the Halloween candy, the Thanksgiving feast, the Christmas cookies, the New Year’s champagne… and the “Valentine’s Day dessert that was meant to be shared but somehow wasn’t.”

Then March rolls around and BAM! It’s tax season. We look at our accounts and say, “Wait, when did I become this poor?” And around the same time, we look in the mirror and whisper, “Wait… when did I become this… squishy?”

But don’t worry, we’ve got excuses! Twenty-one years ago we gave birth; somehow, even 21 years later, we’re still blaming the baby weight; meanwhile, the baby has a driver’s license. . Or maybe we’ve been blaming menopause since the iPhone 4. And if none of that applies, we say the holy word: STRESS!

We tell ourselves cortisol is building a community around our waistline. Our thighs? Water retention, obviously. Our glutes? Victims of too many hip thrusts. And yes, all of us walking pantry rats out there, I see you. I am you!

Have you ever tried to help a friend who gained a few?

Be honest, didn’t you want to grab that chocolate bar out of their hand and throw it into the next time zone? But no! They gave you The Line™:“Let me just eat today… I’ll start my diet on Monday!”

Spoiler alert:Monday. Never. Comes! Because once you start eating, you just keep going. Trust me! I asked ChatGPT’s Mayo Clinic AI what was wrong with me. It basically said:

“Well, your menopause ended a while ago . That’s not hormones. That’s just… a long term relationship with snacks.”

Fat is like a mother-in-law who said she’s visiting for three days and has now been living in your house for three months. You try everything to get her to leave: salads, squats, crying in leggings, but she just fluffs the cushions and settles in. She’s not going anywhere without a legal eviction notice… or maybe a spinach-based exorcism.

I sold my soul for chocolate.

It was raining, I was weak, and my husband had secretly been storing Toblerones for emergency situations.

I told him, “If you give me that chocolate, I’ll write you a contract. A REAL agreement. No more snacking. No more pantry raids.”

He agreed. The chocolate was delicious. And the next morning, like the diligent chocolate dealer he is, he said:

“Where’s the contract?”

So here we are. Yes, I wrote it. Yes, I signed it. And yes, I started my day with eggs and spinach.

Lord help me! It tasted fine. But by 9:17 a.m., I was already fantasizing about bacon like it was a lottery I once won, then lost the ticket. Tragic.

But I will do this.

Because I believe in logic, and let’s face it, I’ve never met anyone (except cows!) who got fat from salad. (I mean, they say they did, but I think those people are lying or they are really cows.)

I’m an honest eater. A loyal snacker. But I also want to be a slightly slimmer circle. Not a triangle. Never a stick. Just… a refined doughnut.

I know it’ll take time.

This isn’t a two-week detox. This is a journey. A slow, spinach-flavored, chocolate-tempted, cat-judging-you-from-the-corner journey.

But I believe I can do this! Not by starving. Not by lying.But by laughing, writing, and occasionally screaming at a cup of sugar-free pudding that I never asked for, never wanted, and absolutely don’t trust.

Wish me luck.

And to anyone else eating everything except the family pet:I see you. I am you. Let’s be salad survivors together.

So yes! I made a deal!!! I gave my husband chocolate eyes in exchange for real promises. And because I’m a woman of honor (and because he had the Toblerone), I actually wrote him a proper agreement.

You’ll find it just below. Feel free to steal it, print it, tattoo it, or whisper it to yourself during moments of fridge weakness. Sharing is caring, especially when carbs are involved.

Chocolate Ceasefire Agreement

Between: Me, a Certified Snack Predator, And: You, the Saint Who Still Loves Me Anyway

Date of Declaration: Today, a day like any other Monday, except this time, I swear I mean it!

Location: Kitchen. Where all bad decisions begin.

Preamble

Let it be known that I, [Vicky Toumit], would like to express my deepest gratitude to my beloved husband, [Jean-Yves Toumit], who has consistently shown patience, understanding, and unwavering love, even as I have, on occasion, attempted to consume a raspberry-themed computer part, mistaking it for candy.

I acknowledge that you love me in all sizes, shapes, moods, and metabolic states, and for that, you deserve a Nobel Prize and possibly sainthood.

This agreement is signed with the hope of improving my health, my comfort (especially when sitting down without my internal organs staging a protest), and my ability to walk past the pantry without behaving like a possessed rodent.

Clause 1: The Chocolate Clause

From this day forward, you agree not to offer, bribe, wave, hide, or accidentally leave chocolate, bread, cheese, or any other caloric kryptonite in my line of sight.

If chocolate is presented, I reserve the right to draft another treaty, sell my soul again, and blame you entirely.

Clause 2: Pantry Protocol

I hereby acknowledge that I have, in the past, treated the pantry like a sacred temple of snacks. I vow to no longer sneak in like a midnight raccoon and eat everything except the cat and you.

Should I feel the urge to “forage,” I will instead drink water, scream into a pillow, or pet the cat while whispering, “I’m stronger than the carbs.”

Clause 3: Rocket to the Moon

I understand that, if stacked vertically, all the chocolate, bread, and cheese you’ve lovingly given me would now form a solid bridge to the moon.

I also understand that astronauts are slim for a reason, and I will not be boarding any sugar-fueled space missions.

Clause 4: The Motivation

This is not about looking like a supermodel (although let’s not rule it out). This is about feeling better in my own skin, walking without a soundtrack of creaks and cracks, and proving that menopause can’t have the final word.

Clause 5: Praise & Love

Thank you for believing in me.

Thank you for loving me when I’ve been bloated, cranky, chocolate-smeared, and borderline unrecognizable in snack mode. You are the real MVP (Most Valuable Player ).

Signed:

The Snacker-in-Recovery:

The Chocolate Gatekeeper:

Victoria Toumit

Let’s face it — no generation has ever liked the previous one. I know this from pure experience. My family thought I was a rebellious, headstrong creature from a generation of rogue unicorns. I could do backflips in midair, catch a bird with my teeth, and they’d still say, “Back in our day…”

Honestly, if my parents’ generation had a proper name, it wouldn’t be “Baby Boomers.” It’d be “The Back-in-Our-Day-ers.” And us? We’d be “The Neighbor’s Kid Is Better Than You” Generation.

You see, back then, we knew who was a boy and who was a girl. There were no long gender discussions. If my mom said I was a girl, then BAM — case closed. No PowerPoint presentation needed. But I do remember one delicate child at school who, although assigned male, behaved in a more feminine way. The kids noticed — we weren’t blind — but we never teased him. He was fragile, and we were… surprisingly good kids. Because even if I wasn’t better than the neighbor’s kid, I was definitely someone else’s favorite neighbor kid. Balance, you know?

Fast forward to today, and identity confusion is the new national sport. People are arguing with strangers online, shouting over each other like it’s a WWE Smackdown, but no one’s actually listening. It’s like… the louder you yell, the less you understand.

And me? I’m tired. My brain is too full for this chaotic soup of “they/them/what now?” I get headaches just scrolling through.

Now, I know this is a detour, but let me take a little side street. I’m coming back, I promise.

Eighteen years ago, I picked up a 3-year-old baby and never put him down (emotionally, don’t call child services). Surprise! He came as a bonus with my partner. I didn’t know the first thing about parenting — I grew up in a house where loving the neighbor’s kid more than your own was practically a tradition.

So I called a friend in the U.S., a real kid-whisperer who had her own children, plus her sister’s and cousin’s kids. I said, “I have no experience. I never even wanted kids. How do I do this?” She asked, “Do you love him?” I said, “Love? I’m obsessed! He’s the best kid on Earth. But I don’t know how to act like a parent.” She laughed and said, “You’re already doing it. Just love him and be there when he needs you.” And guess what? We made it through 18 years. My sweet bonus son is now doing a Master’s degree and has always been top of his class.

Now imagine if, back then, my friend had said, “Wait, first check if the child identifies as a boy, or prefers to be called ‘they.’ Also, consult their spirit animal.” Honestly? I’d have probably joined the military out of confusion. (Which I almost did — I took the U.S. Army exam before moving to France. We’re a “Plan B always ready” generation.)

If this had happened today, I think war would be less exhausting than figuring out someone’s pronouns.

Meanwhile, in China, kids aren’t busy wondering if they’re boys or girls — they’re becoming artists. I’ll send you a video soon. Have you seen the Rabbit & Turtle Dance video? It’s an online hit. I watched it and cried. Yep. Real tears.

Because while Eastern children are learning art, science, and self-discipline, ours are busy trying to pick a gender like it’s an ice cream flavor at Baskin Robbins. They’re told: “You can be whatever you want!” And they hear: “Even a different body part!”

Meanwhile, millions die from diseases because they can’t afford treatment, but gender-affirming surgery? Free with a side of rainbow sprinkles.

Once, when my son was five or six, he watched a movie and decided he wanted to be a thief. I mean, that was his first career plan. I couldn’t judge him. I can’t blame him, because when I was his age, I wanted to become a housekeeper, because our housekeeper was the coolest lady I had ever seen! One of my first cousins wanted to be a fisherman. But as we grew up, we evolved. I became a journalist, my son moved on to cryogenics, and my cousin? He got his Master’s at Johns Hopkins and is now a successful civil engineer.

Kids want to be all kinds of things — that doesn’t mean we should buy them a boat and say, “Ahoy, little fisherman!” Children dream, and it’s up to us adults to keep both their dreams and their feet on the ground.

So if you made it this far (congrats, you survived this rollercoaster), please — before you go — watch that video. Because your children deserve to be brilliant dancers, thinkers, and humans too. Don’t fill their heads with confusion. Let them grow, then choose. But most of all, teach them to be kind.

That’s all the world really needs.