#11 Of Something That Doesn't Get Better

There is this band of soft flesh that has galvanized around a portion of my torso. I refuse to allow it to rule my life so therefore starting at age 51, and now one quarter into my 52^nd year, I have employed classic avoidance to deal with this nuzzlemuster. I have come to realize that it is something that doesn’t get better and might be getting worse. One thing that has gotten better, not to get off topic, is that I can create abstractions.machinations. poetics. skipping scenes and sequences and burbulty burbs to whatcha -gonna do about-it–ville-ski little party boat around the lake and some cha-cha-cha when I begin to plan a trip to the store to buy a fresh battery for my digital scale which of course does nothing but tell me the truth in large black numbers and decimals. The goddamn nasty fucker-nutter.

So, well.

I used to be in charge of this vessel we shall call the Corpus Christi of lovely womanly something or other.  We have had an excellent run and continue to do so when my head is buried as deep as the earth’s molten core to avoid the hear no evil see no evil speak no evil monkey on my ass.  Just to clue you in on my little coping series which is not yet available on QVC or The HSN, I know that every self hating American woman feels exactly as I do, and if I can market this bitch I’ll be corpulently wealthy.  Snicker-doodles!

I know that!  However, until that happens I have to guizzy whizzle myself into a pretzel. And it is not a low carb pretzel. No sir-ee bob-in-ski! I’m not that special that I won’t profit off everyone else’s misery. I may be a little piff-puff ball of love but I am not stupid!

And if you think this is funny for one tiny second you could not be more deluded. You think this is a joke? Whoa. Rein it in and pull your neck in or do whatever it is you need to do to keep your own Spanx-ed midsection from being exposed to humiliation and the reality that estrogen is on a permanent vacation and all the yoga (hot and other varieties ) and treadmill activity and walking stressful city blocks etcetera, will provide control over this squishy mcgiggle sausage-y back fat roller derby flesh-fest, you are on Mars (without the weightlessness- ha ha ha).