OMG...even my hair follicles are swollen. I am typing this while eating left over sweet potatoes because I just read they can debloat you. I'll get to that in a moment.

First, I just want to announce that the only thing I will strangely be grateful for these next few days is early darkness.

Darkness makes bloated people look more attractive.

Allow me to point out there is a marked post-holiday difference between swollen divorced women and swollen married women.

That being, that married women usually have a matching swollen spouse.

Single divorced women feel swollen alone and have little desire to attempt to get dressed attractively and socialize with the opposite sex.

Bloating for us is a lonely sport.

Post-holiday emotional and physical exhaustion when you wing a holiday without a wingman usually leads at some point to thumbing lazily through women's magazines you've been meaning to read searching for tips to lose weight.

On page 23 of the December issue of First Magazine I found the sweet potato flat-belly connection.

It said, "Each of these tasty tubers contains 950 mg of potassium — nearly twice the amount in a banana.

This electrolyte enhances the kidneys ability to eliminate retained fluids, banishing bloat in as little as 24 hours.

Plus sweet potatoes' betaine clears fatty deposits from the liver, accelerating the organs breakdown of belly fat for fuel."

Okay, if they say so.

I must not have eaten enough of them during Thanksgiving dinner to offset the other 20 dishes.

The ones I am eating now still have baby marshmallows attached.

I am not sure if that's a deal breaker. I'll let you know if I am still unable to get dressed in 24 hours.

Attitude Is Everything!
Debbie

To check in with Debbie or suggest a blog topic, email: [email protected]

I feel like putting on my feetie pajamas at 5 o'clock. I know this happens every year when it begins getting dark early, but this year I can't take it any more. I am fighting back! Anything not to be on the couch for hours in between hustling back and forth to the refrigerator.

I need to suck up the daylight whenever I can so I have been forcing myself to get out. Mostly I try and make it to the gym because someone shrunk all the clothes in my closet.

To amuse myself I have been taking all the different kinds of classes they offer. Spin, pilates, kickboxing, body conditioning, etc. Monday night was boxing. I didn't notice I was the oldest person there until about half-way through. My chest was heaving and I was wondering if anyone in the gym had medical knowledge. What the heck was I thinking? After jumping rope, doing pushups on a hard wood floor, and completely flattening my manicure inside my boxing gloves on a punching bag, I had no idea if I would ever see darkness again...I was praying I could get back outside to the dark parking lot.

Too proud to flee, and with raccoon mascara eyes, I really hoped I wouldn't become a casualty. What's too much for a woman my age? Is there an age limit on boxing? Anyway, I made it through, high fived the 20 year olds on the way out and will continue to fight (box) getting SAD this year. SAD being Seasonal Affective Disorder. Lack of sunlight causes serious depression in many people. Figure out how to fight back at it if you are one of them. Maybe you should be the gloved one next?

Imagine? YOU could take The Gold every time!

Inspired by the Olympics and delusional that I somehow can still get my body to look like those women's volleyball contenders, I was thinking...

There are so many things a divorced gal becomes proficient at by necessity — by herself — that there should be some way to get credit for it. Just maybe there should be some kind of Divorced Women's Olympics.

There would be global contenders.

Here are some divisions in which any one of you could take a medal:

Grocery Power Lifting

The Financial Balance Beam

She-Man Provider Competition

Single Mom Relay

Solo Wrestling With Yourself

Set the Table Tennis

Laundry Volleyball

Extreme Soul Searching

My favorite? The Divorce Decathalon!

"Heptathlon" actually is the proper word for the female version of this track and field competition, made up of these seven events: 100 meter hurdles, high jump, shot put, 200 meter sprint, long jump, javelin throw, and the 800 meter run.

As we all know, this sounds like a typical day BEFORE lunch.

The final event would be the "Late Life Luge"...jump on, hang on, close your eyes, say a prayer, take the ride of your life and hope you make it to the finish line in one piece.

The last one might take some extra practice but since you've got nothing to lose — you might as well Go For The Gold!

This is the story of how last night I landed in that 100,000 degree yoga class I swore I would never go to. How I made it through without waking up to the eyes of a paramedic I will never know.

It was 6 pm. I just got off the train from NYC and was heading to my suburban NYSC gym for a spin class when I got a call from Vi, my gym buddy. Vi said, Joann (her sister and my other gym buddy) wanted to try the 7:30 Bikram yoga instead — that they were having some trial special.

Not the hot yoga? I asked. Yup, that's the one. I had to pull over. This did not sound appealing. I wanted to say no, but I said yes. My high heels were killing me and I needed coffee first, so I stopped at Starbucks. First problem. You never drink coffee before hot yoga. The woman at the desk looked horrified when I walked in with the cup. It raises your heart rate she said.

Now I'm horrified, since this seems like a very bad thing right now. You didn't eat recently, did you? she asked. Well, I did not get the memo on yoga protocol between the train and the class, so yes, I just had a banana shake on the train that was one of the four meals allowed on my Diets4idiots first day.

I now notice that people are practically naked sitting in the hallway and I am already feeling hot. Has anyone ever died in here? I pay, grab my towel, and head to change and some girl yells that I am not allowed to walk in there in heels. We don't want pebbles in our mouths she said. Pebbles in our mouths????? Holy Zen. Second infraction...you need to leave your shoes at the door. Good thing they don't give out yoga tickets.

I'm sitting here eating lunch looking at a picture of Lisa Marie Presley eating lunch, in The New York Daily News. The difference between us is that someone took a picture of her eating and put it in the newspaper.

Obviously she's gained some weight, which is NEWS in celebrity land. Its such a tacky move. I hate when people make fun of weight. The Weight game has been a running theme my whole life, so I'm sensitive. I am staring at the poor girl's face noticing how extra weight distorts a woman's beauty.

Then I started thinking about these steroids I am taking this week to continue to offset the allergic reaction to the prescription drug problem I had last week... And how the pharmacist said I'd probably bloat a little and be hungry... And how I am sitting here eating like my fourth meal already today for no real reason, and how I am grateful that I will not land in The Daily News like Lisa Marie. I actually lost a few pounds, but that could revert back hourly the way these steroids are making me eat.

By the way, Lisa Marie was snapped chowing down with husband number four, Michael Lockwood. I must be busy because I never realized she went for a fourth hubby. Bet she could share a few stories with this crowd. Lisa Marie has two teenagers, Riley and Benjamin, from her ex-husband Danny Keough.

She was also married to Nicholas Cage and Michael Jackson, the latter of whom you just know she didn't have a whole lot of fun eating with. She's probably been making up for lost time. I personally think life is a lot about finding your "eating" partner.

(Photo: New York Daily News)

I never get sick, but ever since New York turned into Fargo this month, I've been "dying" on and off with various versions of the flu, a sinus infection, some wacky virus, girly issues, etc., etc.

Each of these recent health episodes forced me to deal with the same awkward question on the doctor's office sign-in form: Who the hell is my emergency contact these days?

When you live with somebody, like it or not — tag — they're it! Husband, boyfriend, roommate, whoever.

But when you live alone or live alone with kids, you now have to decide who you want to "bother" if you're dying. Long nights on your couch alone in a fetal position also make you re-assess this question. Kids can only do so much and, truthfully, as long they see you're still breathing they really lose interest.

This week I had a bizarre allergic reaction to a prescription medication. No one seemed to be able to diagnose the problem, which kept worsening, till I finally landed in the emergency room yesterday morning and Dr. McFabulous figured it out and gave me the shot that I needed six days ago. WHEW!

In my lifetime I haven't whipped my clothes off for as many strangers as I did this week AND good thing this ended, too, because I was seriously running out of "matching sets."

But this blog is not about the time I spent frantically clicking on medical sites matching drug reaction symptoms, or the "almost" 911 call that I talked myself out of making for fear that I was imagining the heart attack, or the night I slept on the bathroom floor because I was so delirious from this so-called virus I couldn't stand up, or the daily trips to urgent care only to be sent home each time thinking I was nuts, or the Benedryl (gotta love it) that kept getting me beeped from behind at all the green lights.

The phrase "back to my roots" used to conjure up Sundays spent at my grandmother's eating homemade raviolis... now the phrase means — for the second time this month — I am dying my hair. I can't take it. I am busy and have no patience for this. How can I concentrate at a business meeting with a white halo around my head? How can I possibly meet up with "hot young guy" in daylight?

I wonder how many other women are sitting at their computers timing the dye in their hair? Please don't call and tell me, you know I can't put the phone to my ear right now.

Though I have chosen the media industry, I come from a long line of hairdressers and my daughter, who's in college, also happens to be a licensed hair "superstar". It's fabulous! She saves me a fortune and I don't have to sit in public with dye dripping down my forehead, plus I get to use the "good stuff". There were many years I could not afford to get my hair colored at a salon, and I know that's the case with many single mothers.

Anyway... this week, due to conflicting schedules, my daughter was busy and I lost patience and I went and bought the drugstore brand of hair color and tried not to drip on my computer while I "cooked". When I washed it out... it didn't take. Bummer. Yesterday we both happened to be free at the same time and I put her in a headlock for round two. Then somehow, while I was "cooking", I found this little tidbit:

About 54% of women color their hair, and about half of those do so exclusively at home, according to research conducted by Procter & Gamble. Another 10% use both home and salons, while the rest go regularly to salons, where coloring ranges from $50 to more than $300.

Personally, I'd like to see the statistics for how many women are communicating with hair dye in their hair with other unsuspecting people.

No more false alarms!

Stacey, the producer from "The Montel Williams Show" got in touch to say the segment called "Getting Your Sexy Back" — featuring some of our own First Wives World gals and me will finally air today.

Best!

Your Chief Executive Girlfriend
Debbie Nigro

I finally got the nerve and the cash to resume where I left off so long ago with Dr. Harvey Shuster — oral surgeon extraordinaire from Westchester County, New York.

One implant, two bone grafts and a partridge in a pear tree later, my face is swollen and numb but I am happy. Not as happy as Harvey — trust me — but happy I was able to move out of the dental holding pattern and make some forward progress.

Money issues can make you dental mental! Like many divorced gals, my dental work over the years was mostly done on an emergency basis — like when you'd swallow a broken tooth during a business luncheon. It was always too embarrassing to explain I couldn't afford it.

My secret nightmare was that I would die of some dental complication that would infect my brain, and that everyone who ever knew me would forever tell the horrific dental story. How stupid a legacy would that be?

Anyway, I'm off to a Percocet, but just wanted to add that before the novocaine kicked in, I had a warm conversation with a couple of the gals who work in the office.

One gal told me of her triumphant comeback from a horrible divorce experience that caused her to have an actual stroke. The other is a sweet beautiful mother of 3 is in the middle of struggling through a divorce right now. I invited them both to stop by First Wives World. The first gal to lend some insight and the other gal to get some love.

There's a bike path that runs along the parkway, on the way back from Jones Beach on Long Island, New York . Every single time I've driven home from the beach over the last 30 years, I've seen people biking along the path, and I've said out loud "I want to come here and do that. "

Yesterday, my pal Vi and I put the bikes on the back of her Jeep, followed the GPS to the starting point, and rode the bikes on the path to the beach!

As soon as we got there, I had to help rescue some poor woman who was attacked by a pack of hungry seagulls who swooped down and stole her hot dog, hit her in the face and scared the daylights out of her. You know I had to help get her a new hot dog — and we spent the day on the beach going through the rest of my "list."

Now I want to know: What's on yours?