How shall I say this… My winter coat has become quite large and I’m not talking about my outerwear. I’m referring to the layer of blubber that has accumulated and spread like a fungus over the past few months. What the hell happened? I am officially on my way to turning into a flabbed up and jiggly housewife. I’d like to say that I’m rocking that J Lo booty, but the truth of the matter is that I’m walking a dangerously thin line between a J Lo booty and what is sure to become a big fat ass unless I address the issue immediately.
It’s my own fault really. I haven’t gone running once since winter began. Clearly the ol’ metabolism is winding down, not to mention how much I’ve been enjoying those long winter evenings full of wine and cheese. There’s no way I can pass up the cheese when I’m waddling through Whole Foods. I stand before that case full of fine French cheeses and salivate. I stand there and dream of buying a herd of sheep or cows and crafting my own line of artisan cheeses. I fantasize about going to France to learn cheese making from an old French cheese making master… then Kate yells, “GO, GO MAMMA!” and my fantasy comes to to a screeching halt. The closest I can get to fulfilling my weird cheese fantasy is to buy a hunk of cheese and pair it with the appropriate delicious wine. Thus, I have created a vicious cycle wherein I continue to feed my growing ass. Kim Kardashian would be proud of me.
The other day when I was vigorously mixing pancake batter, I arrived at the horrible realization that my ass was moving in unison with my stirring. Well, that’s new! Fear is beginning to slowly creep in. It’s nearly time to confront the blubber build-up and subject myself to a full-length mirror inspection in broad daylight. It’s almost time to drag out the bikini, put it on and gasp in horror at the chunky beast that stands reflected before me. It won’t be pretty, but it has to be done. Consider it an intervention of sorts.
My sneakers are patiently waiting for me in the closet along with my vast wardrobe of running clothes. Last week I put it all on and then laid on the couch to read a magazine and provide Gwen with a squishy spot to rest her little head. Something tells me that its time to step away from the cheese and log some miles on the running shoes. I’ll grab my iPod and play the songs that I purposely loaded to fuel my hatred toward my big butt, namely “Baby Got Back”, “Fat Bottom Girls” and the explicit version of Will I Am’s “Big and Chunky”…because I like filthy lyrics.