I don’t think it’s right that we have to go through life with only one body. We should be allowed to upgrade periodically, like with our automobiles. I say this not because I was allotted a body equipped with large pockets of thigh fat which steadfastly remain despite my attempts to dislodge them with exercise, diet, herbal supplements and miracle creams, while others were allotted supermodel-style bodies with flat stomachs and non-existent hips. No, what’s bothering me are the spiteful and sometimes gross things my body does just to irritate me. I’m sure that’s what is going on here. Why else would I be subject to acne outbreaks of teenage proportion which mysteriously manage only to occur on the eve of important social events? It’s got to be malice; there’s just no other explanation.
Or, I’m on the couch watching a hockey game when my body starts trying to suck me into the vortex of slumber. My mind protests, “I am interested in this game! I want to see Chris Pronger score!” but this only causes my body to step up its efforts. My mind begins carping shrewishly, “Well, go to BED if you’re that tired. You know our back is going to hurt if we sleep on the couch. You don’t have the good pillow - we’re going to get a stiff neck! Get up and go to bed! It’s not like it’s FAR. Get up! Get UP! GET UP!” A battle of apocalyptic proportion ensues. As I am nothing if not stubborn, eventually my mind wins and my body heaves itself from the couch, stumbles blearily into the bedroom, rakes back the covers and falls into the blissful nest of clean sheets, warm blankies and feather pillows, surrendering at last to a state of COMPLETE AND TOTAL WAKEFULNESS. AAAAGH!
Then there is the inexplicable shaving phenomenon, whereby no matter how diligently and assiduously I shave my legs, there will be an area on one or the other measuring about ½ inch wide by 4 inches long so bristling with stubble that, should I ever actually sleep with another person, I should probably have them sign some waiver of liability for skin injury.
My hair is in on the plot, too. I do exactly the same thing to style my hair every single morning and sometimes it looks damn good. Other times, I have the biggest hair this side of a Tennessee trailer park. I never have a bad hair day so much as I have a big hair day. It makes me wish I owned a dented pickup truck and a hound dog so I could properly accessorize, but a Corvette and a Shih-Tzu do not a hillbilly make.
My body likes to torment me by developing bruises of the oddest configuration in the most unlikely places, knowing that my mind will puzzle for hours over how it could have occurred. Nothing I have done should cause a bruise roughly the shape of the state of Maine to appear on the inside rear portion of my upper arm, yet it is undeniably there. A diagonal line bisecting my left foot would seem to indicate that I dropped something thereon, probably a book, yet I have absolutely no memory of having done so. A perfectly round bruise of the size and shape of a tennis ball manifested one night on my left buttock, despite the fact that I haven’t played tennis since college.
One of my more amusing bruises, although I do remember how this one happened, dates back to the time when Bo lived in Cincinnati. I fell down his back stairs. Highly polished hardwood floors + army socks = disaster, even without factoring in my innate klutziness. I put a foot on the stairs, it flew out from under me and I sailed up in the air, slamming down on a lower riser butt-first. This resulted in a perfectly ruler-straight bruise with sharply defined edges running all the way across my behind. It looked like a racing stripe. I was truly thankful that I didn’t have a boyfriend at the time, because I could just imagine trying to explain this one. I go out of town, ostensibly to visit my brother, and return with this ridiculous contusion. I knew that no matter how innocent - or thorough - my explanation, even if I had corroborating witnesses, Nonexistent Boyfriend would just smile one of those guy-smirks that says, “Yeah, whatever; I KNOW this is the result of some deviant sexual activity.”
It is now time for me to go and punish my body for its unruly behavior by inflicting refined sugars upon it, in the form of Krispy Kreme doughnuts.
Or, I’m on the couch watching a hockey game when my body starts trying to suck me into the vortex of slumber. My mind protests, “I am interested in this game! I want to see Chris Pronger score!” but this only causes my body to step up its efforts. My mind begins carping shrewishly, “Well, go to BED if you’re that tired. You know our back is going to hurt if we sleep on the couch. You don’t have the good pillow - we’re going to get a stiff neck! Get up and go to bed! It’s not like it’s FAR. Get up! Get UP! GET UP!” A battle of apocalyptic proportion ensues. As I am nothing if not stubborn, eventually my mind wins and my body heaves itself from the couch, stumbles blearily into the bedroom, rakes back the covers and falls into the blissful nest of clean sheets, warm blankies and feather pillows, surrendering at last to a state of COMPLETE AND TOTAL WAKEFULNESS. AAAAGH!
Then there is the inexplicable shaving phenomenon, whereby no matter how diligently and assiduously I shave my legs, there will be an area on one or the other measuring about ½ inch wide by 4 inches long so bristling with stubble that, should I ever actually sleep with another person, I should probably have them sign some waiver of liability for skin injury.
My hair is in on the plot, too. I do exactly the same thing to style my hair every single morning and sometimes it looks damn good. Other times, I have the biggest hair this side of a Tennessee trailer park. I never have a bad hair day so much as I have a big hair day. It makes me wish I owned a dented pickup truck and a hound dog so I could properly accessorize, but a Corvette and a Shih-Tzu do not a hillbilly make.
My body likes to torment me by developing bruises of the oddest configuration in the most unlikely places, knowing that my mind will puzzle for hours over how it could have occurred. Nothing I have done should cause a bruise roughly the shape of the state of Maine to appear on the inside rear portion of my upper arm, yet it is undeniably there. A diagonal line bisecting my left foot would seem to indicate that I dropped something thereon, probably a book, yet I have absolutely no memory of having done so. A perfectly round bruise of the size and shape of a tennis ball manifested one night on my left buttock, despite the fact that I haven’t played tennis since college.
One of my more amusing bruises, although I do remember how this one happened, dates back to the time when Bo lived in Cincinnati. I fell down his back stairs. Highly polished hardwood floors + army socks = disaster, even without factoring in my innate klutziness. I put a foot on the stairs, it flew out from under me and I sailed up in the air, slamming down on a lower riser butt-first. This resulted in a perfectly ruler-straight bruise with sharply defined edges running all the way across my behind. It looked like a racing stripe. I was truly thankful that I didn’t have a boyfriend at the time, because I could just imagine trying to explain this one. I go out of town, ostensibly to visit my brother, and return with this ridiculous contusion. I knew that no matter how innocent - or thorough - my explanation, even if I had corroborating witnesses, Nonexistent Boyfriend would just smile one of those guy-smirks that says, “Yeah, whatever; I KNOW this is the result of some deviant sexual activity.”
It is now time for me to go and punish my body for its unruly behavior by inflicting refined sugars upon it, in the form of Krispy Kreme doughnuts.
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