boom-baba-boom-baba-boom...

I don't have much in the way of inspiration in the blogging department lately. Not sure what's up exactly. Perhaps it's because over the weekend I discovered that I'm no longer thin. Hell, I'm pushing the limits of "average build." Gasp! This is not sitting well with me. God, even my mother gently suggested I go to Curves with her on Saturday. I didn't, of course, but the mere mention sent shockwaves throughout my fragile ego. It was a blistering wake-up call.

Now when my already-brittle self-esteem starts to take a dip, I don't self-medicate with food or shopping trips. Puh-lease! That would be far too predictable and mundane. I opt for a slightly different approach -- I unleash my inner masochist and engage in brutal self-critique. Lest you think this is a healthy exercise, I should state that this is a far cry from self-reflection. Don't confuse the two. When I engage in the latter, I acknowledge my tardiness, my irresponsibility, my self-centeredness, my appalling lack of discipline, among other things, and work to curb these flaws. Emphasis on the acknowledge. I don't claim to have made progress on any of these points, people.

The self-critique is a far more vain and ridiculous ceremony. I situate myself in front of a mirror and scrutinize what sags, poke at things that protrude, tsk and sigh at those parts that should protrude more but sadly don't, etc. And sometimes I try on hats and/or make sultry model faces. Common tools of this sadistic practice include: a tri-fold, full-length mirror and/or an illuminated magnifying mirror; tweezers, the Finishing Touch personal trimmer; spackle, a vast array of Clinique and Physician's Formula brick-a-brack; Puffs Plus with Lotion (to mop up after all the sobbing, you see); The Body Shop Soothing Eye Gel (for use after the Puffs Plus); and finally, a bathroom scale.

Lacking most of those vanity tools at my mother's house, I had to settle for just weighing myself. Since I don't have a scale in my apartment, I haven't been monitoring my increasing girth in pounds over the past few months. Sure, I've seen my body expand but I wasn't able to quantify the junk in my trunk before. Imagine my shock when I caught a glimpse of the record-breaking final tally! I've been lying about my weight for about a year now but what was once a wee fib is now a brazen and deceitful fabrication. It's positively shameful. Don't even ask 'cause I'm not telling.

I've also been fixating on pictures from my sister's recent wedding. Others may disagree but I feel like my arms look like big, flabby white sausages. Gone are my chiseled guns courtesy of those years of playing softball, slinging pizzas at my college-era restaurant job and hoisting children skyward while collapsing strollers during my stint as a Manhattan nanny.

Aging blows. I now have to work to retain some semblance of a figure and it fucking sucks!! But I'm on a mission to lose the flab and return to my former sinewy state. And I will DAMMIT. There is currently no beer in my fridge and there won't be for the foreseeable future. Actually, there is one bottle of beer -- Sam Adams Cream Stout. I got two in a mixer pack and I took a sip of one, cursed God's name and then poured the evil potion down the sink. The second one is still in the fridge but seeing that it's bloody awful, there is absolutely no danger of me drinking it. Anyone want it?

Mark my words: The Kick-Ass K-Mart Bike will be propped up on one of those pedestal things to make it a stationary bike for the winter. In addition to eschewing the Hoegaarden, I'm going to pedal my ass back to its former glory. I realize I'll have to forfeit what little headway I've made in the boobie department but I'm willing to go back to less-than-a-handful if it means I can pour myself into some cute ass pants again. Sadly, I must, I must, I must decrease my bust.

And as God as my witness, the dimples will once again only exist in my facial cheeks and not the ones I sit on. Boo-yah!