But what if my boobs don’t grown back?
I ignore my flabby stomach on a daily basis. Really it is so easy to ignore. I turn sideways in every mirror I can and suck it in saying “itsnotsobad” until I sit down on the toilet and feel that flab of skin flop down onto the top of my thighs.
So hot, right?
I contemplate hourly? Um, bi-hourly? Whatever, that I should run, do sits ups, do yoga, avoid the delicious fried latkes in my fridge and not eat handfuls of pretzels while wearing a divet into the brown couch in the corner I love to sit in. Hmm. Pretzels.
I look up a little further and think about my boobs. They are kind of great and having lived most of my life without terrific boobs I am kind of attached to them now. Not only do they feel nice-really-take my word for it-but they look nice in shirts and in a bathingsuit top. I am fine looking if you just look at my chest. My arms are fat and flabtastic, my stomach is rubbery and dimpled, my ass is sagging and my thighs are too close together. My calves are alright.
I need one of those big black bars they put over people’s faces in magazines to try not to out the “DON’T” person. I want that over my midsection to calves. Like all the time.
My darkest fear requires this accessory because if I exercise too much, lose too much weight-WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO MY BOOBS?
What if they don’t grow back? What if they morph into deflated sacks like that ziplock bag full of extra frosting you forgot about int he back of the top shelf of the fridge? All squishy, flat and spoiled?
I have never really liked anything about my appearance save for my green eyes but even then I would say they are tooooooo squinty.
I would like to thank WORDPRESS for allowing me about another 12.78 minutes of thinking about my flabby assed-ass and fat stomach while not doing a damn thing about it. After all, who will save the boobs otherwise? I do it all, for the boobs.