In which I get all vain on y’all.

Every month I have a realization:

“OMFG! I’m FAT! This is IT, I’ve had it! I’ve absolutely GOT to do something about this! Now a little pudge is fine, of course, but I’ve passed that! I’m moving into the shit-girl-cover-that-ugly-UP! category, and that is so not acceptable!”

And then two days after The Curse ends, I’ve mysteriously and effortlessly lost five inches from my waist. And my ankles! (Okay, maybe not five inches, but it feels that way. One day I put on a snug t-shirt and gross myself out, a few days later I’ve again got the intimation of a waist.)

It’s sneaky, too, this puffing up. I don’t realize it’s happened until it’s gone away again. It seems at the time like normal flesh, but it’s not! It’s imitation flesh! It’s evil wicked temporary blubber!

The moral of the story is that bloating? SUCKS.

I remember watching commercials for Midol back in the day, and thinking it was just more of the same-ol’ typically unnecessary medication foisted off by the drug companies, but now that I’m old and my hormones are whack I realize that this bloating thing? Is totally no joke.

Water retention! For fuck’s sake, people! There’s no good reason for my ankles to disappear every 33 days, is there?

Silver lining: since I was destined to have weak female hormones, the Universe compensated by giving me a great voice, a sunny disposition, and too much fucking testosterone. Which means I will soon be a hairy-chested, male-pattern bald-headed singer whose indominatable spirit uplifts all those around her!

All three who still remain by the time I’m an ankle-less bald-headed hairy-bodied ape of a crone, that is. I’ll sing ’em commercial jingles written by Barry Manilow and snippets of operas I’ve forgotten the words to.

*cackle*