Dear C,
Offer up a pint of blood, and suddenly you want everyone to start calling you a saint! Frankly, I don’t know what’s more tragic: the lengths a busy wife and mother has to go to these days to get a little TLC for herself; or the extreme measures she has to take in order to shed a pound. Naturally, I’d be flat out on the cot bed next to you faster than you can say ‘Cosmo, anyone?’, if it weren’t for the unfortunate fact of my British nationality, which is seemingly enough to get you put on a bio-terrorist watch list this days.
But if you really think about it, who among us can really be sure they aren’t infected with just a touch of Mad Cow? Only the other day, I found myself wondering the supermarket aisles, trying to remember why I had come, and what the point of it all was…..but then again, I have asked myself those questions for years. Similarly, who hasn’t felt the sudden urge to invade Poland while waiting in line at the DMV? As someone who has mysteriously put on weight in the last month or so – I think it’s the increase in atmospheric pressure – to be deprived of the chance to offload the odd extra pound or so via legalized blood-letting amounts to the kind of discrimination MLK fought so hard to eliminate. I hope hubby is prepared to add my complaint to his list of pending class-action suits!
Speaking of weight gain, I have noticed that the women in my current yoga class are looking a little less skeletal than usual. Not sure if it’s a result of achieving all that inner peace, or whether it’s time to switch loyalty to the studio you frequent, where I understand the pounds simply melt away in the Guantanamo-style studio heat. Not that I’m against inner peace, you understand, just not at the expense of my outer ass.
Namaste,
P.
