When I log into my blogging account now there is a choice given to log into New Blogger or Old Blogger- somehow, my perception of the phrasing leaves me feeling like a ferret in a dustbin when I choice 'Old', and I picture the decrepit lady with the apple in Snow White; the gnarled, ashen skin and stringy silver hair.
Do you sense the bliss the first moment your body succumbs to the structurally supportive cotton candy welcome of bed and your skeletal muscles begin to liquefy. Do you sigh and stretch and moan out loud in the sensual glory of oozing across the sheets?
As a woman I came with special powers. I can go to bed a B-cup and wake up a size C. I can spend all Monday hoping my rings don't fall right off my fingers yet be unable to squash them onto my sausage stumps Tuesday morning. I can grow clean out of my pants over night.
Seeing me you would not call me fat. Seeing myself I am mildly disgusted. My body is morphing out of my control- I am fattening up like a pasture pony at the hay buffet. It is partly lifestyle. I am still on my feet for 8 or 9 hours every day at work, but no longer racing around after busy residents. Unlike in Maine, it is not entirely feasible here to do my grocery shopping on foot- that is, shoulder my backpack and canvas bags and hoof the two miles each way on a safe sidewalk.
Unable to find a local school or barn I am no longer taking Tae Kwon Do or riding horses. 97% of the group classes at my gym occur during my working hours.
And with nine months of celibate singledom under my (accidental chastity) belt, I am no longer 'on top' several times a week!
And my thighs are staging a coup.
They must be stopped!!!