Why is getting into shape not limited to New Year’s goal setting anymore when we can cover ourselves up with a slanket or a snuggie¬†for three more months? Now we have to get in shape for freakin’ everything. Reunions in the Fall. All those judgmental eyes. Only my eyes are the most judgmental of all. Slimming down before the holidays so you can pile your plate with sausage balls with a modicum of self-respect. It’s hard enough to juggle sausage balls on your plate with dignity as it is. Donning a swimsuit for warmer climes for Spring break. And, of course, summer slimming. It’s ridiculous, I say! All this slimming-expectancy when I’m in my prime of Middle-age spread. It’s not fair. Where did my thighs go? Poor thighs. I wish I had a better explanation for them than “it could always be worse, dear”. And the muffin-top. It’s like a spill-way over here. And the squishy middle. “It’s like I’m squeezing a marshmallow when I hug you, mommy!” So sweet. And why do the tops of my hands look like elephant skin? As if Gay Chris wasn’t enough torture making me buy those True Religion jeans a size too small. If only I had those to cover my carcass about now. Can’t wear jeans in 106 degree weather, however.

And why can’t I spell anything? Is lack-of-spelling ability linked to being middle-aged and slimming-challenged? I would probably be without a job if I didn’t have spell-check to save me from my own incompetent spelling. Oh, well, maybe that’s one mystery that’s solved. Am I the only one who didn’t know how to spell “carcass”? The Spell-check police wanted to change it to “Caracus” or “caucus”. I don’t want to go to Venezuela, which apparently I also can’t spell without assistance. And I really don’t want to attend a political meeting.¬†Fuckers. Like I don’t have enough problems over here with the aging and the lack of slimming and the middle-agedness. And before any of you stick a hot poker in my eye because I’m not a big girl, it’s the inner-critic that shouts the loudest. There is always someone else younger and faster. I just want to go all Kathy Bates in Fried Green Tomatoes on someone’s ass more lately. I’m older and I have more insurance.

I would be slimmer without that extra kidney. Or I could lose a half pound tomorrow by donating blood. Except then I’d eat those stupid Gradma’s cookies they give you in the recovery area when the old people with stickers hold you hostage for ten minutes…