This just in:
The Queen is down to a single chin! Hip Hooray!
That embarrassing double chin that was wobbling like a turkey’s wattle has disappeared. Gone! I look so much younger. Less tired and saggy.
There seems to be a little less junk in the trunk too, although it’s hard to crane my neck around that far to get a good look. The husband has made several comments to that effect; he is a self-proclaimed “ass man,” so he devotes a fair amount of time to observing and … well, let’s leave it at that.
Funny how I always lose weight off my ass first, so my paunchy gut looks all the paunchier until the weight begins to drop off up in front too. Still got that saggin’ apron of tummy fat and loose skin that I have to move out of the way in order to shave the tops of my legs, though. And still have those underarm flaps, too, that make me look like Batwoman. Must start hitting the triceps machines at the gym.
Can’t wait to reduce The Girls from the 40s to the high 30s. I miss having sexy 38-ish cleavage. Yes, I’ll admit, I always loved to show off The Girls when we were younger and of normal weight. I miss my beautiful Girls.
When I’m fat, I feel like The Girls are flabby, ridiculously huge and just unsexy. Yuck. Look like somebody’s big mama-cow. There is such a thing as too much, Dolly dear.
Case in point: With a blond wig, fake nails and the right tacky Dominatrix-cum-island-ho wardrobe, The Girls and I could be stunt triplets for Dog the Bounty Hunter’s wife and her big, bobbin’ unholstered buzooms.
The Girls are clamoring to go shopping for some sexy new bras and low-cut tops when they reduce to a manageable size–that is, a size commonly carried by Victoria’s and other underwear merchants. Yesterday The Girls were quite proud to wear one of our prettier 42D bras that they hadn’t been able to squeeze into for many months without embarrassing overflow.
Of course, after two major weight gains and losses The Girls are riven with stretch marks and are swinging in loose skin like they’re in grocery sacks, so they’ll never regain their former glory without surgical intervention.
But just having two reasonable sized breasts – instead of these two enormous shelves jutting out in front ahead of me everywhere I go – will be divine. I could live peacefully with the extra tummy skin/paunch (that only a tummy-tuck would rectify, and which I could never afford) hanging out on the porch below if I had attractive decolletage upstairs again.
Then it’s adios, plain white grandma-esque boulder-holders with four or five tow hooks and “comfort straps.”
A few evenings ago, I tried to break into a jog while walking my Yorkie because he was wanting so badly to run, but without an industrial-strength sports bra to constrain the wildly flapping and flailing boobage, it became clear after a few yards that running at this size was absolutely ridiculous … and potentially dangerous to innocent bystanders (who just might piss themselves laughing, then slip and bust a hip).
Mrs. Dog the Bounty Hunter may break out in a jog and go bouncin’ and jouncin’ after those bad guys; me and The Girls, we’ll be strollin’ for now.
Listening to… “The Self Esteem Movement” (George Carlin), “Big booty” (Willie Nelson)
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