Wherein she makes an honest appraisal of the damages of fifty hours of sitting on her ass doing beadwork during the holiday season:
1. The waistline. Definitely softer looking. “Softer looking” is a nice way of saying “flabbier.”
2. The butt. Well. I’d have to back up to a mirror and look and we’re not going there, no, no, no. But if we were, I expect “there” would be closer to the earth than I’d prefer.
3. The pants. Someone has been taking in my pants at night while I’m asleep. And it’s just not funny.
4. The boobs. Let’s face it, the under wire bra is our friend and more than a mere fashion accessory these days.
“Have you quit going to the gym?” the Scorpio inquires, casually, as we’re taking our clothes off. The Scorpio, who has built his own gym in his own yard, and uses it regularly. Who squats 300 pounds. Whom women harass and treat as a sex object on the street. From the first moment I got an unobstructed look at him, I determined I could not compete with that kind of perfection. Or self-discipline.
And if anyone else had asked me that question while I was disrobing, I’d probably have booted the bastard directly off my balcony. But it’s him so I answer with a cheery grin.
“Yes. Are you still going to sleep with me?” He laughs.
Of course he is. Because it’s also my perfectly proportioned soul and splendid mind that he loves. Not to mention my enthusiasm.
Later he nags me about spending my money for nothing. So I explain.
“I keep paying because I do not admit I have quit going to the gym. It’s the same reason I never buy a carton of cigarettes, because that would mean admitting I’m going to smoke that many.”
Conclusion: Although I do not have the self-discipline god gave a fruit-fly and my panty line may currently appear to be embossed on my jeans, I get to keep the prize because of my vastly superior logical mind.
No please. Applause is so embarrassing.
