Friday, January 27, 2012

Banana Nut Muffin Top

My pants have reached a state of permanent unbutton-ness.  To button them results in acute pain in my belly region followed by the muffin affect and leaking from my eyeballs. 

Not too long ago I had lost a significant amount of weight, about 20 pounds.  I'm short and I know I'll never be skinny, or even Johnny Weir's idea of fat otherwise known as, well, skinny.  I know that when you begin a new relationship it's inevitable that you gain a few pounds.  I get that.  But I've gained back 15 freaking pounds!  And in my idiotic enthusiasm I gave away my fat-pants and now only have I-feel-so-fat pants.

Adding insult to injury my boyfriend said to me that he was feeling like he was getting a pot belly.  Raising his shirt to show me a perfectly flat stomach, he insisted that he's gained weight and wanted to find my scales.  Fine, no problemo.  So I dig out my scales from under my shoes and a fine layer of dust, yet not enough dust to hide the ever growing number I see when I hitch my fat ass on it to start my day the right way by depressing the fuck out of myself.  Before he got on the scales he was already predicting a massive weight gain ballooning his gargantuan size from 145 to possibly even, gasp, 150.  At six foot one I believe that puts him in the Fashionably Fit or Ethiopian Svelte category.  The result?  One-hundred thirty-eight pounds.  He'd lost.  Significantly.  So I called him a skinny bitch and stomped away, shaking the house around me.

Another thing I hate about the weight loss mess is how stupid a freaking problem it is.  I eat too much!  Seriously?!  Jesus Christ, what a damn first-world problem.  I just want my pants to fit.  I'm too broke to buy new jeans (third-world problem) because what I buy costs a fortune (first-world problem) and by fortune I mean a small fraction of what actual rich people pay for their clothes, but it's a sizable chunk out of my non-existent pay check so eff that mess.  Unbuttoned for the win!  And healthy food?  Forget about it!  That shit is so expensive even the store off-brand stuff is too much.  There's a reason poor people are fat:  the Dollar Menu is cheap whereas celery is like gold.  And if there's a Whole Foods store in the state of Arkansas I'll be surprised.  This is the south, baby.  If it ain't fried, it ain't food.  Ask Paula Deen.  I've heard she's been a beacon of health lately.

I guess as far as sliver lining goes my boobs are very bountiful.  None of my bras fit, because I guess that's a theme, but I sorta have cleavage which is cool.  I just look down and I'm like, oh, hello boobies.  I could use you as a shelf from which I eat my meals.  Crumbs get stuck in there but it's okay.  Savin' that for later!

In the end I know it doesn't really matter.  My boyfriend loves my body, though I think he just wants me chubby so I'll be easy to catch if I choose to run away.  Waddle away.  Whatever.  And while it would be nice to walk up a flight of stairs and not have to sit on the last step grasping my chest wheezing in agony, I'd rather do that than 10 minutes of Zumba.  No thanks.



Wednesday, January 18, 2012

FUFF For Life

My boyfriend shaved his facial hair and he now looks like a twelve year old. It’s my fault too. For the last two weeks we’ve had the flu (though I think I still have it thanks to the awesome medication that shuts down my immune system- thanks Crohn’s disease!) and all attention to and care for our stunning good looks had gone out the window thus reducing us to over furred seventies porn stars look-a-likes. So I begged, coughing and wheezing, and he sweetly complied then crawled into bed hiding his nude face in shame. Of course, he still looks amazing. He’s annoyingly blessed with the kind of bone structure that could only be ruined if I pulled an Ed Norton from Fight Club and tried to destroy something beautiful with my fists. Which, after two weeks speaking only to each other, seemed like a spiffing good idea. Seriously when you’re with someone non-stop for that long and you each have nothing in common but the desire to see the other person naked, but you’re too sick to want to see that person naked, or you’re disgusted by their disease riddled body, nerves start running a bit thin.

You may have noticed (Or not. My ego is going to insist you have.) that I haven’t written in a while. I’ve tried, believe me. But the zombie thing was lame and my mother reads this blog so talking about the only thing I have been doing for the last few months (my boyfriend) is a bit awkward. And I’m sorry but I will not be a southern version of Sex and the City. Sex in the Sticks. Sex in my Pick-Up Truck. Sex in the Barn. Sex at the Family Reunion. Aw crap, that’ll never work.

Mostly I’ve been actively poor and wondering if I need to quit doing hair and switch to a job with a little dignity and possibly some goddamn benefits. Like flipping burgers. Or prostitution. Wait, no benefits there. Is there a union? The FUFF. Federal Union of Felatio and Fucking. Wonder what the card would look like.

So what do you do when your boyfriend looks like jailbait, work is slower than molasses, your social life is non-existant, and you enjoy writing but have no subject? Seriously, what do you do? Ramble inanely? Yes, apparently.

How about this, I’m going to make an effort to write once a week about whatever in the hell is going on in my life. For example, today I had a lady come in for her full highlight and color and also her three small sons to get their hair cut as well. I foolishly assumed that after cutting the boys hair their father would come and retrieve them. Sadly, I was mistaken and those screaming bastards stayed the entire three or so hours it took for me to do their mother’s massive head of hair. After they left I contemplated scooping out my uterus with a plastic spoon to save myself the slender chance of reproducing and creating a mini-monster. This was a thing that happened. Interesting, no, but a thing and a thing about which I can write. Wheeeeee. Let’s just see if I stick to my promise. If not, you have permission to harass me on Facebook.