Now that we’ve all overindulged during the Thanksgiving holiday, it’s time to give yourself a break from all that self-loathing. Honestly, a turkey leg never hurt anyone, and we’re coming up on Christmas cookies and New Year’s champagne. Isn’t it time we women gave ourselves a break from the images in the magazines, and accepted ourselves for who we are?
Embrace your curves, love yourself unconditionally, and accept what each day brings you.
BAH, HAH, HAH!
Just kidding! Suck it in, girlfriend! Buy Spanx, duct tape, OSHA-certified steel scaffolding – anything to hide that awful middle-age midsection. It’s so unfair, isn’t it? One day you’re running around in a little red bikini (okay, so you were five) and the next, well this happens…
I got behind the wheel of my car the other day and was stunned to see a roll of fat growing up and over my seatbelt. I exclaimed, “What the hell is this?” alarming an elderly man in a silver Toyota parked next to me.
“I’m eight pounds,” it answered.
“What the . . . Are you talking to me?”
“Yes, Robert De Niro, I’m talking to you.”
“Well, you can’t stay.” I unbuckled my seatbelt, opened the door to my minivan, and pointed to the sidewalk. “Get out!” The elderly man sped off, with a worried look.
“I’m afraid it’s not that easy.”
“Why’s that?” I huffed. “I didn’t invite you here.”
“Oh, like you didn’t. Ben & Jerry’s at one in the morning, cheesecake, sausage piz-umph!”
I wrenched the seatbelt tight across eight pounds to shut it up, and drove furiously through town. But everywhere I stopped, eight pounds was there. At the bank, eight pounds was there. At the supermarket, eight pounds was there. At school pick-up, eight pounds was there. I drove everywhere, hoping to leave behind eight pounds.
“Get away from me!” I yelled into my lap at a stoplight (unfortunately, the elderly man in the silver Toyota was in the next lane and was now convinced I was having an argument with my crotch).
“There’s no reason to be rude,” eight pounds replied.
“Is there anywhere you are not?” I asked, exasperated and desperate for a solution.
“Sure,” replied eight pounds.
“Tell me! I’m running out of gas.”
“The gym. I hate the gym. I never show up at the gym.”
It was at this point I embraced my curves, loved myself unconditionally, and accepted what each day brings me.
“C’mon eight pounds,” I said, giving the roll a loving little pat. “Let’s go buy some Spanx. Would you like a donut?” The traffic light turned green. I winked at the elderly man in the next lane and drove off.
A previous version of this column appeared in The Newburyport Current.
