The Obligatory About Me Post.

So… My dad, even in his 55 years, has the cutest baby face with gorgeous dimples. Even though they are technically a flaw in design, I always loved dimples, and I wanted so badly to have them for myself. And one day, I was blessed to find that I did have them — only, they were uhm, on my butt. Oh, ho, ho, mother nature. I see what you did there.

I was a little minx as a teen, and wore as little clothes as the law allowed. And even beyond, actually, if you caught me online on a friday night. I stopped going to school at 12 y/o, lived a gypsy life, moving all over the country, instead learning as I went. But that only gets you so far, so at 16 I ran away with the first bearded boy I could lay my hands on.

After a few years I decided college was my destination. I moved to my hometown to stay with my grandmother and go to college there; She got sick, eventually bedridden, and I nursed her, confined to her bedside (and, who am I kidding, the fridge!!! Nothing to do? EAT! was my motto.)

When she passed two years later, I moved to my now-husband’s hometown and lived in a rural farmhouse with no AC. And creatures were free to roam in and out. So when I wasn’t slapping at flying things or attempting to sleep in a gravy of my own making (Texas. Summer. No AC. There’s going to be gravy.), I was eating gravy of other people’s making! Because we fry and gravy up everything, that’s a food group all it’s own. At 215  — which is a lot rougher on my small frame than my relatives, who, even the women, are roughly six feet tall — I was a fun house mirror version of myself and had felt like a girl staring out from behind a fat suit. Seeing myself in photographs was to know what Alzheimer’s is like. At 20 I was wearing muumuus, merely browsing clothing and thinking “What whale wears that tent of a garment?” and come to find out, it was two sizes smaller than mine.

Ouch.

My low point hit one day when my husband was digging in his trunk for something and, upon finding it, he came around to the drivers side of the car with his hands full and requested I open the door from within the car. Being of short stature, I hoisted myself up to lean across his granny-car to unlock the door. You all know granny cars. You don’t drive them, you pilot them, like a gigantic boat on wheels, huge and plush and just lovely…. however, I didn’t quite make it over the midseat console. In fact, somehow, I had fallen over it, tipped face-down into the driver’s side seat my husband’s butt had been warming just minutes before. I was like a human seesaw, face down and ass up. In the process I pinned my arms under my epic breasts, and my stomach muscles, which then, as now, were/are made of cottage cheese, failed miserably to right me.

I literally had fallen. From a sitting position. And couldn’t get up. My husband could only watch, locked out of the car, as I rocked the entire thing, rolling around trying to lift my own weight. It was a sad day.

I came upon 3FC after that horrifying ordeal — okay maybe pretty funny — and I lost about 15 pounds, and then I woke up one day and said, “Wait a minute… Wasn’t there something I forgot to do?” That was yesterday. Oh yeah. I forgot to sign in. Or post. Or you know, get on the internet, for about 3 years.

But I’m back, and at 192 — GLORIOUS progress — I’m still an excess of who I used to be. I am now a manager at a boutique which sells the most beautiful butt floss and fake eyelashes upwards of 20 dollars that would make Alexander McQueen wet his sheets in the night. Surrounded by strippers, porn stars, and sexy housewives all day, jiggling their little nubile bodies in view of all as they hurriedly attempt to determine what body topping they need for whatever pole dance/shoot/anniversary makes me boil with jealously. I feel like a clown in lingerie these days and the tragedy is I get all this free monopoly money with every pay check so I can take it all home if I want.

My mini fridge frame just isn’t doing it justice and it irks me.

So there, internet. I admit it. It’s not health, or happiness that pulls me toward you at breakneck speed. It’s the confidence to dress slutty that I miss. And of course, the requisite of looking good while doing so. (If I put on a thong, it would be a scavenger hunt for my husband to find it, there’s not very much sexy about that. To me at least.)