Once upon a time, I ate whatever and wherever I wanted, without even a trickle of apprehension. I stayed between 120 and 125 on the scale, and my tits never grew out of a size AA. I was flat, but goodness, I was tiny. And I mean tiny. Oh, those routines of coming out of the changing rooms, cheerfully content with my size 2's and size 4's.
Then something happened, and I noticed a little flab one day. No big deal, thought I. My ass stuck further out the back but it never really got bigger. My tits grew into a full A. Okay, this is good. I'll take the...lemme look at the scale...er....135? Alright, I guess. Wait, 140? What the hell is happening? Now I have nice respectable tits and a flabby belly....what the actual fuck? Did they make size 6 smaller? I know I'm not bigger, but...what's this flab? Oh fuck. Crunches. I don't mind exercises, but...the carpet in my apartment was laid about the same time as Sputnik and it's itchy and frayed and filled with lingering, crawly things that bite. So now if I want to fit into my clothes that somehow magically shrunk I have to find someplace to do these crunches, and every day, all day. And start eating Panera's miserly portions. And eating things like quinoa. And broccoli. All the time. Which means I'll have to cook...which means I'll have to spend all my time cleaning.
WHAT THE FUCK.
Can nothing be simple?
I'll do it for you, new dress. And I'll try not to resent you for it.
