Operation: slim down to a fuckable size
I’m not the kind of girl to obsess over fitting into a size 2 pair of jeans. I don’t even need to fit a size 8. I’m perfectly okay with having curves and boobs and a little bit of meat, I’d at least like my shape to be… shapely.
All I want is a curvaceous Marilyn Monroe body. And clavicles, to frame my reemerging jawline. And if i could go sleeveless without worrying about that extra flab around my bicep, that’d be great. Dear Santa…
***
I lost my job almost three weeks ago and I’ve been eating myself into a depression ever since. I have no drive to do anything that I used to love doing (photography, writing) and no money to spend on distractions.
Last Saturday I bought two half gallons of ice cream. One was fudge brownie swirl. It had caramel mixed in, which I was delighted to find upon delving into it on my lonesome Saturday night. I also had some birthday cake ice cream. Not the kind that’s yellow batter and chocolate frosting, but the kind with blue frosting and little funfetti pieces. It wasn’t horrible, but it was more sugary than I can handle. Not that it stopped me from gorging.
The ice cream was gone by Monday morning.
Since all I really do all day is sit in front of my computer and watch marathons of bad television, tweak and send out my resume, and occasionally dream about relocating to a much more exciting city, I’ve begun to obsess just a little bit over the alarming rate at which my neck seems to be expanding. I’m not at all shocked, but when I tried on my ex’s hand-me-down jeans yesterday, I knew something had to be done. The jeans are a size 16 and tight. For two years I’ve been comfortably wearing size a 14 from the same store. Yikes.
***
I was once a size 18. At the time I was dating a girl who often had the brilliant idea to get each of us a pint of ice cream that we could enjoy in bed together while watching our favorite tv shows. She was an enabler. Also, I never trusted her, which turned into me doubting my own self-worth and constantly eating my feelings. When we broke up I lost two dress sizes because I was nauseous every morning for two months and had no appetite at meals.
I was once a size 10. It was the summer between my sophomore and junior year. My dad was on the Atkins diet and I was visiting for a month, so I was on the diet by default. I had never been a 10 before and though it only lasted a month or so before I found myself back at a 14-16, but That was the summer that I found out I had hip bones.
***
What prompted me to get back on the horse? A girl, of course.
I’ve been chatting online with this really cute older dyke who has her life together. She’s a cat person, plays piano, is into art, and can get me hot just thinking about the things I want her to do to me. We haven’t met yet, but we’re talking about getting a drink together in a drink in a couple of weeks, which makes me really take a good long look at myself and what I have to offer.
She tells me she’s gone back to look at my photos because she’s enamored with my eyes. I do have nice eyes. I just wish they weren’t so much bigger than my stomach, because I often find myself eating everything on my plate anyway. Hello, calories; meet my thighs.
I’m a pretty girl. I know that. But I have far too much going on in the mid-section region and I’m pretty sure I’ve got a fupa. Not sexy.
I have three weeks.
If I’m going to be thrown down on the bed, I don’t want to worry about breaking it. If I expect to get royally pounded, I don’t want to obsess over jiggles and rolls. If she wants me on top, it would be nice to have a little bit of stamina before I get winded.
Just sayin’.
I have three weeks to slim myself down to a fuckable size. I might be okay with a 14. A 12 would be miraculous. A 10? Improbable and potentially dangerous, but damn, would I love to know what my hip bones feel like…
