Smack on the Ass

Yesterday morning as I was picking up the doughnuts that Iz and I had for breakfast on the way to camp drop-off at Jo's because I am a bad mom and didn't have time to prepare her usual fare of three organic eggs, nitrate- and hormone-free bacon, hand-squeezed orange juice, and toast with wild-gathered honey and wheat germ camouflaged by my dipping the granules into chocolate and then pre-chewing them individually, a lady asked me the question every infant's mother yearns to hear:

"So, when is the baby due?"

GAAAAAH! As if viewing the Hawaii pictures of me in the sausage casing that used to be my bathing suit wasn't ego-pummeling enough!

At the time, though, I burst out laughing and told her that the baby was due 7 months ago, and that she was right outside in that minivan right there (did I mention the whole BAD MOTHER thing?).

Guess it's time to stop kidding myself about being overweight. Don't worry, I am not a crash-dieting freak, and am not trying to elicit reassurances or other comments. I am a body image realist. I generally refuse to join in body-related conversations because I grew up in Hell Lay where such discussions are always completely deranged, but I actually have no hang ups about the topic of weight except absofuckinglutely wanting to kill people who obsess or make moral judgments about it.

I have observed many friends remake themselves into healthier versions (one quite famously, though possibly not quite so healthfully) through moderated and revised but still totally normal eating, and less-than-insane exercise. I have, or used to have, the kind of body that responds to eating a little bit less and exercising a little bit more. It is doable if I can reallocate some of my already-low reserves of attention and willpower and energy.

In the meantime perhaps I will wear slightly tighter shirts. I'm sure Seymour won't mind.

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