Dear Body:
I feel like we’ve known each other long enough to have a frank conversation. I mean, we’ve had some good times over the past almost 39 years. Remember Spain? (Thank goodness no one had cell phones then!) For years (especially since teenager-dom), you and I have been like peas and carrots. Milk and Cookies. Smokey and the Bandit. However, I can’t help but notice that lately we’ve been more like Harry Potter and Voldemort. Why might that be? I mean, I feed your soul with delicious and healthy fare. I indulge your cravings with delectable tinctures and chocolate infusions. I raise your heart rate constantly with 7,000 daily panic attacks – talk about great cardio!
But for the past 5 or so years, I feel like you’ve been doing your damnedest to revolt against me. Almost immediately after you gave me two perfect children, you gave up on me. Did I do something to offend you? Because I’d love to make amends and stop this remora style relationship we have morphed into. I miss the old us. I don’t want to make this into a Body-Bashing-Blamefest, but you need to see just why I am upset.
Stretch Marks/Saggy Skin: Yes, my stomach ballooned up to epic proportions while my little leeches babies were growing. But, I put all that lotiony crap on you. I used cream. I drank water. I wrapped you up in a straitjacket after the babies were born. I did all the stuff that Brooke Burke recommended to get you back to pre-baby shape. But you’re not even meeting me half way. The only way to get rid of excess you would be to use a giant industrial sized paper cutter and chop your shit off. But I don’t have any flesh colored thread and the kids used all the super glue on Christmas present wrapping. And then think about the post-surgery clean up? Can’t you just spring back? I promise I’ll buy cute bathing suits and shirts to show you off. Oh, and don’t get me started on how my ass has fallen. I’m going to have to get those jeans that are like a bustier for your buns. Kind of like Hank Hill had. Gluteal implant-pants = Gluteal impants.
Hair: This is a giant middle finger to me. My hair is falling out of my head in ginormous clumps. At the end of every shower I scoop a Chihuahua out of the drain. I mean, I had scraggly white trash hair that BEFORE my 30’s. And now you decide “Yeah, you know what would be HIGH-larious? What if I make all the hair fall out of your pate and make it grow back in your nostrils.” What. The. Motherfuck? NOSE HAIR? Fucking hair in my nose. At no point in my life did the wish “You know, I’d LOVE to emulate a troll” ever cross my mind. Do you find this funny? Because I can’t believe it. And pulling out those fuckers makes my eyes water. Really, body? Really?
Memory: At one point in my life I had a Mensa level IQ. I absorbed information like it was my job. Now I have the memory of a red eyed tree frog. I could tell you exactly how much of a memory a red eyed tree frog had if I could remember basic facts. Like what I had for breakfast an hour ago. Or if I washed my hair while in the shower – right after I may or may not have washed it. My point is – I can’t even fucking remember if I had a point.
Sleep: Not only did you give me two kids who refuse to sleep, but you have now blessed me with insomnia. The gift that keeps on giving me panic attacks. I would kick your ass, but I am too goddamn tired. I use to be able to party until 3am then come home to write a 10 page paper in a foreign language and make it to my 10:00 class on time. Now, I can barely make it up to watch my dream celebrity slam-piece Simon Baker – on the 7pm timeslot no less. I fall asleep without issue – but around 2 am I am wide awake and trying to remember the name of my 6th grade English teacher who had a morbid fear of gourds. Because, clearly that’s more important than squeezing in a few more REM cycles. Fucker. Plus, being sleep deprived makes me hungry and crave carbs which lead to more of you in my stomach region. What a vicious cycle of hideous.
Wrinkles: Fuck. You. And. Your. Wrinkly. Ass. What about all the thousands of dollars I’ve spent on moisturizer and wrinkle cream and sunscreen and facials and little roller ball thingies and scrub and masks and whatever the fuck some jackass has deemed “Wrinkle cure”? Did that mean NOTHING to you? I wash my face before bed and wake up looking like a herd of chickens danced the lambada on my forehead.
Every morning while trying to remember if I’ve slathered on enough 3 Minute Miracle to condition Latvia and Lithuania, I blink through my sleep deprived haze to catch this middle aged, balding, wrinkly, sun spotty, flabby voyeur spying on me. I hope it’s just a hallucination – but this troll breathes out her nose hair at me and cackles. Yes, cackles. I make a motion to get this middle aged wretch out of my bathroom and my arm flab jiggles and my stomach does the wave and the tears make a streaky river of moisturizer down my cheek. And a piece of me dies.
Body, why can’t you make that piece be a chunk of my flab instead of my hair follicles? I would totally rock necrosis. Everyone would be “Wow Tracy! You look so thin! What is your secret?” and I’d be all “Leprosy!”
Anyway – my point, body, is that I think I’m pretty good to you. I’m just asking for a little forgiveness from you. Would a weekend at the spa help? Now, your job is to look hot so I can get the husband to agree to this. Because there’s no way that aforementioned witch is going to sweet talk him into kicking down for that excursion.
Here’s to hoping my pep talk worked and that we can get back to the way things were.
Missing you and your hot ass,
Tracy
0 comments:
Post a Comment