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Lying around in last week's Doritos.
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Nope, not a description of me. As slovenly as I get, I don't get that pathetic. Truly. I don't. But this whole one-liner came about when we were just casually talking about going to the doctor, and how you have to face THAT LOOK when you go in for your yearly checkup. You know, the look. The look the doctor gives you when she glances at your rolls of fat, peers you up and down, judging the quadruple chin, the bags under your eyes, the slouch, and the pronating feet and LOOKS at you, thinking REALLY LOUDLY about how she would love to tell you that eating bad crap is really horrible for your health, and how you really need to lose upwards of 140 pounds and how sleeping more would really help with those bags under your eyes and the balls of stress you're carrying on your shoulders, and how gosh, gee, diabetes and heart disease and kidney failure wouldn't be threatening on your very doorstep if you'd just get off your fat and lazy ass and go walk around the block once every now and again, but, INSTEAD, she just gives you the LOOK. And she cluck clucks when you tell her you exercise five to six days a week because honestly, she knows, and we know, and you know that THAT isn't true. Kinda like when you go to the dentist and the hygienist is scraping the crap off the back of your teeth and your gums are bleeding to high heaven and she asks you how often you floss and you say, "a couple times a week," and YOU know and SHE knows that we're all lying here.
And after cluck clucking about your exercise routine, and frowning at the blood pressure cuff which MUST be broken because the numbers come in surprisingly fine, the doc orders blood tests, "just to check" to see what your numbers are as WE look over YOUR overall health plan. And you know she's secretly rubbing her hands together and mwah-ha-ha-ing and plotting in her wee little office in the back of the building with the window that overlooks that over-priced wild-life refuge, praying that your glucose levels are high enough that she can grab the results, slam open the door, and say, "ha ha! You have diabetes, you fat cow! Now look where your slovenliness got you!!!" But, alas, she's truly heart-broken and crushed when your cholesterol numbers come back just fine, and there's not a drop of sugar in your urine, and, for all intents and purposes, you're actually JUST HEALTHY ENOUGH for her to have give up her lectures on healthy living. Because God forbid, if she actually hinted around that you might be a teensy weensy itsy bitsy bit overweight and a might tad bit less than ideal in your BMI chart, and your blood pressure might be just on the edge of normal, that you might backslide down to the dark path, and bury your feelings in a bag of Oreos or a box of un-toasted Pop Tarts. So instead she hands you the check out sheet and tells you to get your flu shot (which I won't) and a pneumonia vaccine (nor will I do that), and God forbid, go get your breasts squished in that evil wicked machine because only 1/2 of all breast cancers are actually hereditary. Now, with THAT one, I listen. Because as much as I hate the flu, I never actually LEAVE THE HOUSE or SEE other people hardly ever, so honestly there's really no reason to get a flu shot or a pneumonia vaccine. Because how can you get the flu and pneumonia if you never leave your own house? Chances are pretty slim. So I'll just skip that one, thank you very much.
But my boobs? They're pretty awesome and I love them. And my husband loves them. And they make me look fantastic. And heaven knows, every woman needs to have SOMETHING that makes her look fantastic. And, though my eyes are UP HERE and are pretty darned amazing, my breasts are truly spectacular. And I would NOT want to have to have them hacked off simply because I was too damned lazy to get them squished once a year in those evil wicked machines, even if the machines are as evil and wicked as I remember.
And yes, I'm pretty darned lazy. But honestly, it's not like I'm lying around in last week's Doritos. I do, actually, get off my fat ass and exercise 3 days a week. It's not much, and it's not fast, but I do it. And I watch my guilty pleasure on my Netflix (yay Netflix) while plodding along on my treadmill, and I sweat and wheeze and plod along until my 48 minute program is over, and I can collapse in a chair and feel smug and self-satisfied at my burnt-off 200 pathetic and measly calories. And it's not like I'm not busy on my other four days a week. Shopping for clothes, and trolling through the grocery stores buying food and day dreaming of hollandaise sauce and caramelized onions has to count for SOMETHING in the exercise department. Or running after 11 un-ruly, but truly fabulous 2 year olds for 3 1/2 hours each week -- that's got to count for something too. And each poopy diaper you change from a toddling child that isn't yours should count for double points. Just sayin'.
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