So has this ever happened to you?
You’re like, “Oh Shight! I’m going to be 40 soon!” and then you look at your arms and realize you need to start lifting weights because in just the last 6 months, something terribly awful happened to your collagen AND your muscle fibers and you need an intervention and it might be a good time to start exercising, right? but you don’t even though your husband put a treadmill in the extra room downstairs and he said it was for him originally but now he’s all, “it’s for you! why did you make me get it if you’re not going to use it!” and you think he thinks you’re fat and you realize it’s your 7th wedding anniversary in three weeks and is there really such a thing as the 7-year itch? and is your husband going to wander off all because of your arms? or maybe because of your chin(s)? And you just don’t know.
So you resolve to go downstairs to the treadmill, maybe watch Dr. Phil while you “run” and instead you take out your camera to download cute pics of your adorable daughters, one who wore nothing but Dora knee pads and an Elmo balloon all day yesterday, and while you’re fiddling with the memory card it flips out of your hand and somersaults into the kitchen sink where it submerges in the remnants of the 10 lbs. of pizza sauce you ate for lunch and then you’re thinking, “that’s a lot of money down the drain,” and you sort of start to laugh at the double entendre, but stop yourself because really, how plebe can you get? That’s such obvious humor. But then you realize it’s for real: your memory card is in the sink and that was your Brite Smile money and now you’re going to have yellowish teeth, fat arms AND no husband and this is dire, really dire, what will you do? Oh. My. Gaw.
And THEN you remember the open bottle of wine on the counter and you’re thinking, “why not?” But no, you must pick your kids up soon and what if someone smells the alcohol on your breath and reports you, sort of like you think your neighbor wants to do because she’s wondering why your children never wear clothes and generally act like ragamuffins. Are they undernourished? Kept in the closet? She doesn’t know. But you can’t help it, your oldest is always “hot,” and then your youngest, who wants to do everything her sister does, says she’s “hot,” and next thing you know, they’re out on the patio wearing tiaras and socks. And they wave to everyone who walks by or is within the longitudinal/latitudinal coordinates of San Diego. Including the weird guy next door who leaves his window open when he showers and is really phlegmy and hacknoxious and usually it’s while you’re eating and you wish he’d stop smoking, but then your daughters befriend him and he’s really pretty nice and maybe it’s not his fault he’s mucoidal. Plus, he barbecues a lot and it smells fabulous. But nicotine gum, OK? And your daughters run in right then, tracking mud and crumbs ALL over the house, right when you were going to tone your arms. So now you can’t. Gaw! You are going to be fat forever.
You’ve been there, right?
p.s. Don’t forget my kick butt sorta giveaway! About 4 more hours until the polls close. Also, I like country music, do you? (Win and find out for sures!)