In the movie version on my life I walk around my house in Christian Louboutin heels and a Juicy Couture bikini and there is not one ounce of imperfection on my ass...or thighs...or stomach. I can wear ANY jeans I want and if I'm feelin sassy, I'll even slip my skinny ass into a pair of Juniors. That's right "Angels" and "Mudd," I'm comin for you bitches! Puff.
Weight. You bitch.The way you effect a woman's sense of worth is impecable. And why..please for the love of all that is remotely fair, tell me whhhhy do we always lose weight when we're upset...when we're wallowing in our sorrows? I walked 8 miles a day...every day...when I was deciding to leave my husband. Those 8 miles a day were thee most therapeutic steps of my life...and I lost a good 30 pounds....Then, I got over it. Puff.
Food. Glorious, amazing food is both my best friend the kind of enemy I want to spit on and even kick a little. I cannot walk down the cookie aisle without imagining the sweet taste of a double stuffed oreo...those things are like little pillows of perfection placed between two chocolate slices of heaven. And cheese....cheese is the most amazing food on the planet. Anything you can add to grits, eat plain or on a burger is an incredible, incredible food. And who the hell can pass up a brownie...a warm, fudgey corner piece of a brownie is like the best sex you've ever had...except you don't have to see yourself naked. Score! But then...then I think of my ass, and how it resembles a shelf. My ass literally starts in the middle of my back and takes it sweet time coming to an end. It has a mind of it's own when I dance, run or even walk. Some guys love big bums, ummm have they seen this thing!? Puff.
And let's discuss the "muffin top." I will never forget the first time I saw a picture of myself, trying to breathe in a pair of size 4 jeans...and there it was...the top that was muffin. That couldn't be me!? No way. But I remember thinking the jeans just sat a little funny...no my little puffer self...you ate yourself into needing a much bigger pair of pants! Even if you cut any remnant that there was even a size ever noted on what you're wearing...you know...you know that those size 4's, or 8's or whatever you once were that made you happy...those are but a distant memory...and now, now you are in you effing "fat pants." Screw you fat pants. Puff.
Weight watchers told me that for my "petite" size of 5'1" I should weigh 109 pounds. Hi, weight watchers, my right thigh weighs 109 pounds! I almost spit out my 2 point itty bitty snack bar when they told me that...and by the way...if you eat the whole box of snack bars...that's only 8 points, so that's ok, right?! Puff.
I have discovered in recent months that despite the skinny bitches at the gym who make me want to rip every ounce of fat off my body, and the way my ass looks in the mirror in spin class...that I actually semi-enjoy working out. I can relieve some stress, have a little dance party on the eliptical listening to my ipod, and I can think about allll those people who have described me as "cute," or "chubby!" Everyday... I decide to go to the gym so that the ENORMOUS pile of "Pants with Potential" can kiss my shrinking ass, cause I'm comin for ya. De-puff.
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