Since when did weighing 139 feel like 129? Yesterday morning, I eagerly made my way to the scale with high hopes. I’ve recently cut down on my usual cow a day feeding frenzy and was hopeful that my diligence had paid off. When the 3 showed up as the middle digit I enthusiastically threw my hands up in triumph like I was Kerri Strug in the 96 Olympics – And then I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and it occurred to me, I am celebrating over 139? It’s like I got married, stopped giving head, gained ten pounds and have subconsciously slipped into the 139/140 weight class? Good lord.
Now, don’t get me wrong – 139 is a perfectly fine weight, just not when you’re 5’4.5” and come from a family of Legos.
At this point in the morning, I’ve gone through a plethora of emotions and coming down from my gymnastic midget moment I’m face to face with the every girl’s Osama – the mirror.
Realizing that my ass and under arm carriage have all of sudden started procreating in the last year. Like, not only is my reproductive system crying out for an oil change, so are my limbs. I broaden my evaluation for a comprehensive overview of the state of my body, among my findings:
Ass & Thigh hail damage – the kind without insurance so you just have to live with these oddly placed bug bites that have somehow created pockets inside your skin, but have kindly done so in places that are not easily detectible so your forced to examine the destruction through a downward dog position in disbelief of what’s happening right behind you.
Upside down mountains sprouting out from under my arms like the rolling hills of Missouri – like the kind of mountains that are interesting but you don’t ever need to see again.
Weird inner thigh fat, like when you’re driving and you look down in shock like you must have had one leg amputated because you can’t find where the second leg starts and then you realize that your thighs have somehow merged together as one. Like your thighs are these lonely creatures that started dating and can’t get enough of each other so now they’re inseparable. They sit together, walk together, sleep together – you literally cannot pull the two apart…. Two boulders in love.
One of my new favorites – Areola hair… Now I’m not talking bushels here, but definitely some weed sprouts strategically placed in areas that your husband can quickly identify so in a panic you grab the razor only to find that in a haste you’ve somehow managed cut your nipple turning your milk straws into a spongebob characters.
And if all that’s not enough, my skin has somehow morphed into a polka dotted leather boot, or more like pleather. Like a cheap imitation of late 20 year old skin. All of sudden my body is like a deserted dessert terrain from 2000BC and as a curse on its civilization it’s drained all of the natural resources and left a drought in its wake.
On my grocery list today:
Dove Body Soap – to roll up and smoke, those big girls on the commercials gotta be doin something I’m not
Vaseline – to coat my entire body with
Spanks – to separate my Siamese thighs
Nair – for my nipples
Tanning lotion – to disguise the craters in my ass
Vodka – so that I’ll start hitting on myself later tonight
This should do the trick.
OHHHHH HEEEEEY HEEEEEY!