I give, calling any Uncle who’ll still claim me and throwing him the towel.
Fuck that the sun will come out tomorrow, this morning the sky is again the color and texture of cheap gray suede. The trees outside unsure when to bloom green so instead they snow down cupful after cupful of white and hot pink blooms, the pink grinding and staining easily and often into my light indoor carpet, brought in on my feet and on the cat.
Haven’t gone into great, gory detail of the endless hours spent in doctors and specialist offices the last couple months, the new prescriptions introduced and the ways my body rejected most of them and retaliated with a fleshy 10 pound protective shield or kicking into menstrual overdrive (two ultrasounds show I have the juicy ovaries of a 15 year old; I'm going to be that 70 year old lady exploited in People Magazine for naturally conceiving – twins no doubt – at 80 or 90) and how anemia and Kotex pads the size of a small shoe are now the norm and a goiter that sits in my lower throat which really makes a vibrant girl feel less than that, because damnation if goiter doesn’t conjure up the least sexy of all physical conditions of the elderly, right after thick yellow toenails.
The packed on pounds are the worst and I’m to blame for most of them because when one feels bad they do what they can to simply feel good, to medicate away the pain. And that comes in the form of extra salty and briny, crunchy or buttery. There are five pairs of dark wash jeans hanging in the closet that explode the weight, most which hangs on the middle third of my body, into a pasty kneaded ball of dough over the waistband. Nothing can camouflage that, Spanx doesn’t come in that strength.
I envy, envy, envy those who never take exercise. And even though I could pound the cardio crap out of a size 2 Gap girl with zero muscle tone, I wouldn’t mind for a week or so to live in a body that requires no work to simply look enviable and sexy on the outside.
I’ve been fat from birth, will probably be fat by most standards at death and in between I don’t need to be skinny or even slender. I see my silhouette in the yoga mirrors and like the black widow spider shape. Soft round edges that curve like a cello. I find it sexy, so fuck you if you don’t. But I want to and will be 10 pounds lighter than I am right here and now. Screw it, really 20. Who am I kidding, 40. And I’m serious about my health, not Kirstie Alley committed to simply dancing about or pushing a bit of Bow Flex and hoping for stunner abs. I eat real food, clean food not a potion of concoctions. I’ll never bow to the Jenny Craig or Nutra-System gestapo approach to food, a bite or two of protein served in a damp cardboard container.
You vill eat this and only this and enjoy it.
I can tame myself.
I can keep taking my ass to yoga, to calm both body and spirit.
I can realize that even when my eyes see the worst, others drink me in. I can declare without blushing my ever plumper and heart-shaped ass has been grabbed in even greater appreciation of late.
So excuse me while I head to yoga and a steam, then brunch with the manfriend. I think I'll have the steak frites, bitch.