March 31st, 2009
- and I feel I can address you with the informal "ass" because I've known you for quite a long time-
I would like to ask you a simple question: What's your deal?
I've put off writing this letter because I kept feeling that things might improve on their own. Yes, I've had three children and sure until recently I've slacked off at the gym over the last months...okay years, but still. Why have you turned on me? What did I do - besides the occasional cookie binge - to make you go so completely soft on me?
Is it because I'm in my forties? Is that why you're mad? If so, I understand but I'd appreciate it if you'd find another way to communicate with me instead of just dimpling up in anger and losing any semblance of muscle tone. My stomach hasn't reacted this way so why you? My arms are hanging in there too. What makes you so special?
Is this about me not doing those Cardio Barre classes that I signed up for? Or maybe you're upset that I blew off the entire Pilates craze. But cut me some slack. Didn't I do the "Buns of Steel" video four or five times in the late 90's? Maybe that wasn't me. But, still I thought about it. And you can't argue that there have been tons of times I've found myself on all fours like a dog kicking my leg up in the air behind me in the most undignified fashion. That's called spot toning, Mr. Ass. I've also subjected myself to machines called Butt Blasters, tried good old fashioned jogging and drank more than my fair share of water from an Evian bottle that went everywhere with me (although I stopped short of buying one of those netted bottle holders -too corny) But you are refusing to do your part.
Although I've lost most of my pregnancy weight you will not allow me back into my prepregnancy jeans. At least not without a fight. When I do shove you into a pair, you stubbornly hang over the top in what we gals like to call a "muffin top." Sounds cute, Ass, but it's not. Trust me on this.
How can we make peace with each other? At the rate we're going I fear I will have to break down and buy some Spanx. Neither of us want that. They will be uncomfortable. Let's work this out before it gets any uglier. I look forward to a time we can face a three way mirror together.
I received your letter dated March 31st, 2009 and I must say I was more than a little surprised. The mere fact that I'm still able to hold a pen between my cheeks should show you that I'm still ahead of the game. I'm not perfect. But, to be quite honest, I don't know what you expect. Do you think I'm some sort of miracle worker? I feel as though you completely blocked out the past year heretofore referred to as "The Year Of Eating Dangerously." What happened to your resolve not to eat so many sugary snacks? Did I hold a gun to your head all the times you finished off your daughter's macaroni and cheese? I have an agreement with Kraft that all products you consume will come straight to me, do not pass stomach, thighs or hips. That cheesy goodness is all mine. What about the six packs of pudding you put away in one sitting? Speaking of six packs, what's up with your beer consumption? All that beer is not doing me any favors. Could you a least try a Bud Light?
Am I getting through to you? Am I making any headway at all? I'm not angry with you as you suggest. In fact, I've never been happier. All that working out you used to do was making me tired, stressed and tightly wound. Sure you were happier, but I was shrinking away to nothing.
You know what? You don’t like my tone? Well, I don't like your tone either. You treat me like a leper. You ignore me and try to hide me from the world with your bathing suits with little skirts or "boy shorts." Do you think you're fooling anyone? I'm not going to respond favorably to that kind treatment. Why don't you start appreciating me a little more. Rub a firming cream on there once in awhile - do an isometric for crying out loud. Acknowledge my existence!
Plus, not to toot my own horn but black men love me!
So, in closing, I'm fine with myself. If you have a problem, I suggest that you do something about it. In the future, please direct your comments and/or complaints to your brain because that's where the motivation is. Bitch.
Wow, can you believe my ass called me a bitch?