I told you
that I joined a gym. Seeing the title up
there you are probably thinking that I joined to rid myself of a muffin
top. Nope! I joined because, at 42, I was at the crest
of the hill and there was no turning back.
The only way to go was over.
Joining a gym could be the equivalent of tossing an anchor from my
little red wagon. It couldn’t stop me
from eventually reaching the bottom of said hill but it could slow the descent
from a terrifying, headlong hurtle to a leisurely amble. I hope.
(If not I’ll be pissed! I
could’ve been watching a lot of TV
and eating Ring Dings….)
Where was
I? Right, muffin top. So, I have definitely added girth to my mid
section and it is the fault of having to make three kids from scratch. It’s like a balloon, when you let the air out
it doesn’t quite get as small as it started out. Blow it up more than once?
[Shiver] And while I didn’t join
the gym expecting to become fabulous (because I know I am lazy), it got me thinking
and hoping a little for some exterior benefit.
So, I
started thinking about my muffin top.
Well, someone made me think
about it. Snuggling with #3, my shirt
rode up a little and there it was.
Begging to be poked and giggled at by my daughter. I said, “Hey, leave
my muffin top alone!” Then of course, I
had to explain what a muffin top was.
Youth. Remember when we were so
young we didn’t know what a muffin top was?
Remember before we had them?
Before it was even a thing?!
When I was
explaining it to her, I realized that (for me at least) it didn’t really look
like a muffin top. It wasn’t golden
brown. (I’m Irish.) It didn’t have
chocolate chips. (Why would you even bother with a muffin if it didn’t have
chocolate chips?) It looked more like a
pizza crust- doughy, pasty, white. All
it was missing was a dusting of flour.
And while it seems that a little extra roll of dough would be better
than my entire upper body being a big muffin topper, a pizza crust seems worse
somehow. Muffin tops sound sweet. Pizza crust sounds…crusty. Yuck…
So now,
I’ve been going to the gym for a while and I’m still carrying around my stuffed
crust. (I heard you have to do something
called -crunches? They sound hard. And, contrary to the name, do not involve
Doritos.) Back in the day women would
wear girdles with whalebone or steel ribs to force their flesh into the desired
hourglass shape. Those days have
passed. Or have they? Thanks to the modern engineering of nylon, I’ve
heard that there’s modern girdle wear called Spanx . Could it be the rolling pin to my dough? I think this needs investigating. And,
dammit, all this talk of pizzas and muffins is making me hungry… Maybe I need to wear Spanx over my
face to keep the food out?
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