Under the Knife

Earlier this year, I decided to get a few unruly hairs lasered off my chin.  And by a few, I mean an Amish beard’s-worth.

Whatever.  I’m of Mediterranean descent and stumbling into menopause with the grace of a rhinoceros.  It happens.

While I was waiting for my appointment, I saw a brochure for something called Smart Lipo.  It’s way cheaper than real liposuction (Stupid Lipo?) and it heals much more quickly.  I asked my aesthetician about it and she suggested I schedule a consultation with the plastic surgeon.

OMG, thought I, this could be the answer to my prayers!  I may actually be able to stop singing the big-belly blues!

Or not.

Evidently, Smart Lipo is for people who are already skinny, but have a little bump of flab.  And that’s not me.  At all.

Me: I’m interested in Smart Lipo.
Doctor: Let me see the area of concern.
Me: (baring my enormous lily-white belly) Don’t laugh.
Doctor: Yikes!  (OK, so he didn’t say that, but he was probably thinking it.)
Doctor: (poking at my dough-ball belly) Well…Smart Lipo would reduce this a little bit, but you’d be an excellent candidate for a tummy tuck.  If you really want to get rid of this blob of fat, that would be the way to go.
Me: Thanks for not sugarcoating it.  Geez.

Ten minutes later, I sent Jack a text from the parking lot: Mama wants a tummy tuck!

Being a faithful believer of the Happy Wife, Happy Life method of marital bliss, he graciously agreed to go along with the idea, in spite of the fact that he thinks I look ‘fine’ just the way I am blah, blah, blah.  That’s just what a girl wants.  To look ‘fine’.  Needless to say, I scheduled the surgery and paid the deposit before he could change his mind.

I recently told a skinny friend about the surgery and she asked, with the innocence of a five year old, ‘Why don’t you just do some sit ups?’


I love skinny girls.  I have many skinny girlfriends and I cherish them all.  I really do.  But, seriously?  If I did 10,372 sit-ups, I wouldn’t have a flat stomach.  My people are doughy, thankyouverymuch. I haven’t had a flat stomach since I was seven years old.  Unfortunately, unlike our skinny counterparts, we meaty girls lack the energy and metabolism of gazelles.

Oh, hey, speaking of gazelles, I own the Tony Little Gazelle.  Remember that one?  YOU CAN DO IT!!  Only you won’t.  I used it once and nearly threw out my hip.  It’s been in the basement ever since.  It’s keeping my wanna-be Soloflex, my Thigh-master and my Ab Lounger company.

I may have an impulse problem.

No, seriously.  I have to make a conscious effort to avoid QVC and informercials so we don’t end up bankrupt.  In addition to the Tony Little Gazelle, the wanna-be Soloflex, the Thigh-master and the Ab Lounger, I own four Snuggies, two Ped Eggs, Spin Storage Containers, a Topsy Turvy Tomato Planter, Shoes Under, and Debbie’s Green Bags.  There’s more.  Plenty more.

I stopped short of The Clapper, though. I was tempted, but walking to the lamps is part of my rigorous exercise routine.  And I’m serious about getting into shape.


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