Millions eager for launch of Big Butt Survival Kit

Last night I was at my sister’s house for dinner. We were gathering in the dining room and I found myself at the end of the table where I settled into an armed captain’s chair.
A wave of disgust came over me like a putrid fog.
“I’m going to need to trade chairs with someone, “I said, “or these arms aren’t ever going to the same.”
Everyone looked at me in horror. I exchanged chairs with my nephew in the stunned silence, and it was a while before the table conversation regained momentum.

This will not do. While I continue my sporadic exercise and diet program I need some sort of emergency kit for big butt situations such as this. From now on, whenever I leave the house I will have a Big Butt Survival Kit with me.
Clearly, I’m going to need a bigger purse. Something like a carry-on with wheels and a long handle will be perfect. The kit will naturally include olive oil or WD-40 for lubrication for getting in and out of a narrow chair. A crow bar and a small saw are musts. And how about a couple of giant shoe horns that I could place on the arms to use as a sort of chute -- or fat funnel, if you will. Butt horns? The problem with those would be that they would force the excess blubber upward, which could be a choking hazard. That would certainly make swallowing difficult. Wait. Is that bad….or good?
I could probably market the Big Butt Survival Kit. Think about the retail placement opportunities. Movie theaters, sports arenas and airports wouldn’t be able to keep them in stock. It should be made clear that the Big Butt Survival Kit will never make a good gift item for wives or mothers-in-law, however handy and practical it may be.
OK, I need to get busy. I need to design and find a manufacturer for the butt horns and see where I can get a volume discount on mega cans of WD-40. There’s no time to lose – I have a movie date tomorrow!

Who needs surgery if you have crayons?

I realized this morning that, unlike many women my age, I really do not suffer from sagging boobs. At least not all the time. Don’t get me wrong, they’re like long water balloons, alright, but when I’m sitting, they rest nicely on the fat roll above my waistband, causing them to look quite large and perky.
Remember in the early ‘70’s when the rule of thumb was, if you can hold a pencil under your breast, you shouldn’t go braless? For those of us in our early teens at that time, we were looking forward to the day we had something that could trap a pencil.
Today, how many of us could hold a 64-pack of Crayola crayons with ease? Heck, I think I could probably manage a first grade school supply list.
In fact, a box of crayons could solve that whole sagging problem when I’m walking around. Crayons for when I’m standing, fat roll for when I’m sitting. Who needs surgery?

Barefoot in the snow

I’m wearing sandals into November. I don’t care about being challenged constantly: “Aren’t your feet cold?” “Don’t you know it’s wintertime?” People need more hobbies.

Because I’m a woman and I’m 48 years old, I’m hot all the time. Having my feet out in the cool air gives me a little comfort. (Sometimes I fantasize about standing barefoot in a snow bank.) I might be wearing a sweater and a jacket, just because it’s the season, but don’t look down. I’m wearing flip flops.

At least I’m keeping up with my weekly pedicures and have moved away from fresh and light shades to darker-toned polishes. And why isn’t anyone coming up with flip-flips with some nice tread on the bottom? That could be very handy this winter. I’m sure I’m not the only who would buy them in every color.

One lovely aspect of growing older is that I’m not overly concerned about the ugliness of my feet, anymore. I have accepted them. I used to hide my feet in sweaty sneakers all summer, or wear only closed-toe sandals. Not anymore. Here I am at the beginning of November, still baring my size 11s with their crooked toes and gargantuan bunions.

I’m even sporting a gold toe ring, as if to sneer, “What the heck are you looking at?” to anyone caught staring with horror at my feet. Sort of an in-your-face-with-ugliness thing. My feet offer a new opportunity to say, “Hey buddy, my eyes are up here.”

So, if you’re slogging around this winter and chance to see the prints of bare feet in the snow, that’s just me. I’ll probably have figured out that I can get around pretty well barefoot by gripping the snow with my well-manicured toes.

Walking Naked

This morning I followed through on one of those ideas I get during the night. You know how they always say you should keep a pad and pen on your nightstand so you can jot down those nocturnal flashes of brilliance? I was pretty sure I’d remember this one.

I have a treadmill that does everything but make me a sandwich. It has been in my spare room for close to a year and I used it faithfully for one month. I used it until I got a friction rash caused by my thighs rubbing together so vigorously. Well, naturally, I had to let up on the walking while that healed. That was 10 months ago.

Getting laid off at work – shall we just call it “canned?” – has served as a lifestyle jump start for me. I have set realistic short term and long term goals for myself and posted them on the wall of my home office. One of the goals is to lose weight. In that spirit, I decided to pull the treadmill out of its convenient upright storage position – so handy for hanging jeans to dry, incidentally.

So, last night when I surfaced momentarily from a dream and heard the words, “Walk naked, girlfriend,” I knew it was a timely message from God.

After my daughter left for work, I locked all the doors, put on a Paolo Nutini CD and slipped out of my jammies. I put on a pair of walking shoes and stepped onto the treadmill.

I walked for almost 20 minutes. It was almost one mile. (New short term goal: Walk one whole mile.) My big fat Lab, Jigs, watched the goings on from the safety of the hallway. There were a lot of things bouncing and swinging in that room. Smart dog.

Walking naked serves two purposes. First, feeling your body bounce, jiggle and flop while you’re trying to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other is extremely humbling and although no one can see you, you feel embarrassed at all that fat you’ve allowed to accumulate. Theoretically, that should be sufficient incentive to get back on there tomorrow and do something about it.

Second, walking naked and feeling your body part jiggle and bounce, feeling the air on your skin everywhere except for the parts that are hidden in the fat rolls, feels daring and sexy. Seriously. And I’m for anything that makes me feel sexy these days.

The sexy feeling was replaced with giggling when I thought about the sight in store for the EMTs if I should suffer a heart attack in that outfit. The first responder would crash into the house and run down the hall to see a lumpy pile of sweaty pink flesh wearing big white tennis shoes being licked enthusiastically by a big fat dog. There would have to be some sort of medal for that.