There are a lot of opinions on the internet. Anyone with a computer & a broadband connection matched with the time & desire to air personal thoughts & ideas in writing can be an “expert” or a “pundit” or a “specialist.”

While I don’t fancy myself an expert or pundit, I do think I am a specialist in Me; living my life, riding the daily waves, managing day-to-day surprises… I’m also pretty aware of my flaws and challenges and have no hang-ups about sharing them with interested others.

Of which there may be few.

Mostly, I think zipping off a daily thought, a random observation about myself or fellow humans, even a shameless confession or two (or three, or four…) will be cathartic. For me. And in the end, isn’t that what it’s really all about? Me?

Right?

No? It isn’t?

Ahh, the shocks and painful lessons of adulthood. They continue to sucker punch me in the gut.

Speaking of my gut. My gut (and other expanding regions) is the REAL reason I’ve decided to take to the blogosphere. Call it a personal progress report, or confessional (if things don’t go swimmingly).

As I type my sad, saggy belly (“gunt”, if you will, or “fupa” as my friend MGT would say) rests – most Jabba-like on my upper thighs. This is not a lovely sensation, and I could feign stupidity and wonder aloud, “from whence did this evil appendage appear?” But, if I grope around in my personal trough of truth, I am able to recall the c-section, the lack of – oh, what is it called…? – Oh, exercise! (Riiiiight. That turns out to be important.) and my age (37) that willfully continues to creep towards 40, while my body, in rhythm with the march of time, continues to sag downward, giving way to the pull of the earth’s core.

In my mind’s eye, I am still youthful and slender (not that I have ever been smart enough, kind enough, bold enough to see myself that way when I had it so good, stupid 20-something bitch that I was) and when I pass my a mirror I am oddly shocked by what has transpired corporally. I gasp when I see photos of myself. Could that be me? And then, I make firm commitment to dodge family photos and vainly “untag” myself on FB when I am forced to pose. I am a ghost – a missing person – in my son’s photographic history, and that is just plain wrong. And vain.

Did I mention the vanity?

Another thing that’s just plain wrong? My handsome husband is still the exact same shape & size he was when we met ten years ago. He is basically a static calorie-burning factory, with his nightly beers and stack of 11pm Oreos. No gym, no belly, no man-boobs. Lucky effer.

“I love you no matter what size you are,” he tells me, softly, gently, unsure of whether this is the right thing to say.

“No matter what size,” I sadistically wonder.

Wanna bet?

Insult to injury: He is 6ft/160lbs. I am 5’4″/165lbs. This is the most I have ever weighed without creating another human life. And is it not every woman’s dream to weigh more than her partner? Oh, yes, what wonders it does for the love-making.

I worry. If I become injured to the point of immobility, how will he get me to the hospital? I told him to roll me onto a towel and drag me to the car. (Ambulances are more expensive than Hum-V limo rentals!)

Illusions and advancements in fashion:

While advancements in modern fashion provide us with magical accessories of shape trickery that any shrewd, linked-in curvaceous lass can use to her advantage, it is only a mirage. True, the miracle of lycra can help mask anywhere from 10-20lbs (depending on whether your personal guru is Oprah or Tim Gunn) it is only a stop-gap measure; a levee of love handles & cresting muffin toppery. Lycra just a lie (“Lie”-cra! See? There it is.) and while others may not know your real digits, YOU do! (Also – circulation is a necessity of overall body health, thus the lycra cannot be warn continuously.)

Conclusion: Something must be done.

It’s time for me to lose weight, bring my belly button back to the mid-line, lift the ladies off the torturous underwire, bump up my backside lady humps,  and buoy my self-esteem with some good old fashioned self-care, calorie-counting and.. (why do I have so much trouble remembering that word?) Exercise!

Did I mention that my gym is across the street? Results, The Gym. An excellent place to pop by when you’ve been spending too much time at “Fatass, the Restaurant” or “Wine-O, The Bar.” I even have a Wii Fit, right here in my home, and I have to say, it’s an excellent tool. For tracking your weight gain:

“Welcome back, Anna Banana! It’s been 437 days since you’ve started! You’re now 7lbs further away from your goal weight, you missed your deadline by a year and your Wii Fit age is 103!”

That machine is lucky that skinny husband loves Madden, otherwise it would be wedged under the rear axel of a cement mixer on the 395!

So, friends, family, voyeurs, here I go. I’ve put it out there, all public like, and you are my witnesses. Maybe even my motivators. Feel free to put a boot in my bum.
If you dare 🙂

 

Advertisements