Battle Of The Bulge

Dear gym: I realize it’s been a while, but I’m ready to come back.
I hope it won’t be too awkward…

I wish I appreciated how thin I was, way back when I thought I was fat. Now I pull my jeans up and over a second snow man roll every time I sit down. Dear extra body fat: Make your way to my boobs or get the fuck out. From puberty until the fat lady sings, women harshly judge the junk in their trunk.

Eating my feelings is a piece of cake. Sadness tastes just like chicken. Chocolate is not only kryptonite, it’s wine’s best friend. A wine buzz leads to pour choices, late night binging, and greasy morning-afters. I’m ashamed what I’ve done for a Klondike Bar. Weekends are an orgy of tempting treats, pulsating to a R&Brie beat.

As winter weight thaws into spring rolls, we celebrate fat bottom girls who really do make the rockin’ world go round. Hormones have taken control of our appetite, cravings, and metabolism. These bad boys shape-shift the excess chub into muffin tops, shanks, bat wings, and cankles.

Stress eaters medicate with comfort food. Exercise is an underused antidepressant. Workout to stay strong, not skinny. Flexibility, strength, and balance are essential as we age. Don’t get intimidated when the willowy girl beside your yoga mat says she feels fat and you’re standing there…all fat.

Bra and bikini shopping rank highly on the suck-o-meter. After complaining to the sales lady my back fat was too visible, she snarked it wasn’t the bra’s fault. I told her to suck my dick. Cremation may be my last hope for a smokin’ hot body. Scales don’t measure sexy, but nothing tastes as good as skinny feels, so go fruit yourself.

Sangria Wine Rack

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