Don't scoff. It's true. I'm working very hard on my cider belly (that's a beer belly for girls who drink hard cider instead of beer because they're allergic to gluten. it happens.). It's coming along quite nicely too. Pretty soon people are going to be asking me if I'm pregnant. Nope, I'll say, just fat. And then I'll bask in their embarrassed faces. Because if I'm going to get fat, I'd at least like to enjoy it.
I really am gaining weight at an astounding pace. I don't look that bad yet. Yet. But that's because I'm pretty damn adept at camouflaging my muffin top and my exponentially growing booty tooch. Also, I'm tall. So I figure I have at least six months before people start actually calling me fat.
The most frustrating part, though, other than the fruitless trips to the gym, is that none of my clothes fit. I have like two pairs of work pants and two pairs of jeans that still fit. They used to be my baggy pants. Now I don't own baggy pants. Everything else is simply bursting off of me. I'm afraid a button will pop off and take out someone's eye and then I'll be embroiled in a lawsuit, all because of my fat.
And it's not like I can afford to buy new clothes. If I were rich, I'd embrace this! I'm say, fuck it, Kirstie Alley, let's buy some new clothes! Excuse to shop! Hell yeah!
Except I can't afford to shop. I really can't. So I've married my leggings and have draped myself in my long dresses and then I just hope I don't get much bigger. I finally understand why my mom wore all those stretch pants.
Or maybe my mysterious windfall will finally come. In that case, bring on the fat. I'll just buy a mansion and fill it with new clothes. Also: food. I think I may know what my problem is.
I did try to give up alcohol for a month, thinking that drinking certainly doesn't help the situation. But then one of my favorite restaurants was closing on Friday and they were doing $1 wine and champagne and so I was forced to drink four glasses of champagne. Forced.
I do go to the gym. I do. I go and I swim a thousand laps (not that many, but I do work hard), and then I just get bigger. This may have to also do with my relationship with ice cream. That and maybe I'm just getting old. I remember a time when I could eat a massive burrito right after dance class and I was so teeny tiny that one of my old leotards wouldn't even fit on one thigh now.
Don't you wish all nineteen year olds knew how good they had it?
And sure, all my friends are going through the same thing. We're all old and fat. But I'm like, sister christian, you just had a baby! I don't have that excuse. All I can blame is four glasses of champagne and a steak.
But it was damn delicious. A bundle of bubbly food baby. Wanna feel it kick?
|I think I need an abortion|
Next week: the battle with my hair and how I now hate Aveda Institute.