(Post copyright 2011, Dawn Weber)
Lately, people have been asking me when the baby is due.
The baby’s eight, and capable of long division.
I guess I can see why they ask. It’s been a long, cold winter, and nowhere is this more evident than my gut. And maybe my thighs. Also my ass.
It began innocently in October, with a few hundred snack-size Snickers bars from the kids’ stash. The children hate nuts - I was just helping them. We wouldn't want the candy to go to waste. It's a public service.
I also give back to society on Thanksgiving. Since no one but me likes the Crock Pot-full of sweet potatoes that I fix, I'm forced to eat them all. It's a tough job. Someone has to do it - I'd hate to throw away food, and people are starving in Africa. So I just try to look at it as a chance to ingest mass quantities of melted butter and brown sugar. Simultaneously.
My selfless acts continue all through Christmas and New Year's. Those leftover cookies and unwanted chocolates, those bottles of gifted wine? They aren't going to consume themselves, now, are they? And, again - we wouldn't want them to go to waste.
You can see here how I provide a valuable community service by doing away with unwanted food. I'm a giver, really.
I'm not sure how much I'm helping, though, because all the goodies have gone to waste anyway. My waist.
I know it, because my pants are once again trying to kill me. It's an annual April event, the strangling and crushing of my internal organs. This is the thanks I get for my food removal services.
So begins the annual Spring War With My Pants.
That's right, Pants, I'm talking to you. I blame you - for puffing my muffintop. For bloating me like a pregnant penguin. Every breath I take is a fight with your fibers, Pants.
I see you bitches over there in the closet…folded, behaving...pretending to fit like you did in the fall. Smug, superior...feigning innocence.
But I know the truth. I know how you are, Pants. I’ll pull you on, and you’ll grip my gut like a vice, cutting me in half.
Pants. Haven't I been good to you? I painstakingly follow your care labels (“Machine Wash Cold. Hang Over Treadmill to Dry”) so that you air out slowly, allowing for maximum butt and belly stretch.
And still, you taunt me with your tightness. Depressing me, bringing me down, forcing me to cope with high-end pharmaceuticals. Such as Miller Lite.
If I had my way, I'd go without you, Pants. Pesky societal norms.
Instead, I'll fight you like I do every year. Toss your arses off the treadmill and crank up the exercise, cut back on the chow. And I'll beat you, Pants, for the summer, as always.
But Pants, next spring, after another winter of my public service, I know you'll try to crush me once more. Happens every year.
Folks will ask again when the baby’s due.
And then I will punch them.