Friday, August 13, 2010
Does gray hair make my butt look big?
How long do I have to keep up this charade? I'm sick of baked chicken. I tend to get very stabby every time I am forced to watch others eat cake while I settle for a breath of fresh air and the taste of bitter resentment in my mouth. I no longer have the desire to shlep on out to the street for one more run that finds me dodging dogs with wander lust and a taste for human blood along with those creepy landscaper/stalker dudes with another kind of lust, both of whom want to do bad things to me. All this to keep my dress size in the single digits? Seriously?
Can't I just be like Jamie Lee Curtis and let it all hang out? I want to slouch. I want to be at peace with myself even if my belly overlaps my belt. I want to feel free to be excited over eating a cup of yogurt that keeps my bowels regular and encourage random strangers on the street to fill me in on their intestinal escapades. (Who knew bacteria could be so much fun? Thank you, bifidus regularis!) I want to muster the courage to let a human being who doesn't live in my house actually see me without makeup. Maybe I just want to go to Wal-Mart in my pajamas and scratch my privates while debating what goes better with corn beef hash: PBR or Busch? Jamie Lee let the world see her in all of her un-retouched glory. I need to find a road map that will lead me to that place in life.
It happens to the best of us. Maybe I'm more sensitive to gravity's evil ways because I'm surrounded by twenty-something moms who don't need advanced skin care, three pots of coffee per day, and an underwire bra to keep their boobs from landing somewhere south of the equator. (I used to be a 34C and now I'm a 34 long.) I'm constantly being reminded that the mothers of my daughter's friends weren't even out of diapers while I was partying at spring break in my bikini. Did I just say that out loud? Dear Lord, I bet they don't even know who John Hughes was. Stop me before I break out into a Bananarama song!