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!
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.