I've dropped five pounds here, three pounds there courtesy of a stomach bug or broken heart. But not since a short stretch of unemployment and extreme belt-tightening have I dropped a significant (and noticeable) amount of weight.
A tangible and lingering sign of the twenty-five now gone, my stand-bys are failing. Time to restock some basics. The cotton panties now poof and droop in crotch and butt. I actually walked out of a pair of pink Nordstrom super soft hipsters while shopping; made it half way down my thighs before I found a private spot to remove them. The wife beaters I sleep and work out in hang loose, especially around the hips and shoulders, creating the constant need to slide wide straps back up and I'm into the third (and last) row of bra hooks. Two new winter coats became causalities before the last snowfall, sad because I so love the off-white, hip-length, double-breasted pea coat I'd have sex on it.
I’ve still a way to go (I want another thirty) but just how I quick smoking eight years cold turkey, once it sticks, seems to stick.
Wonder when I won't consider myself "fat" (the term "overweight" has no meaning or bearing - over what?) It's not a bad word by any means..."smokin' a fatty", "fat wad of cash"...but it gets a bad wrap. "When we see a hot guy with a 'fat' chick”, a former man friend asserted in best cro magnum fashion, “we think she must give great head, but he can't want to do her.” After a good deal of increasingly red-faced tongue lashing I retorted, “I’m a 'fat' girl and, trust, I’m a wide receiver!” “No, no”, he grunted, “you’d be 'fat' if you were shorter. At your height and weight, you’re good. You're not 'fat'." Think he threw in a "beautiful" for good measure and neanderthal apology.
Oh, and he's got a Buddha belly.