The other day, I was vegging around being almost completely useless, when I decided to torture myself by browsing on the Victoria’s Secret website. For those of you who know me a bit better than those of you who don’t know me at all, you will understand how this is a somewhat self-masochistic act. As I continue to pay off the $2800 I owe to dear Vicky, I have vowed not to spend a dime there until she is monetarily sated. However, I am in desperate need of a Boulder Holder I can wear to work that is not falling apart and poking me with an exposed underwire.
As I clicked and clicked away on the website, I reminisced about the days when it seemed I had unlimited funds to spend on over-priced lingerie and designer shoes. Did you ever notice how perfectly all the clothes fit on those models? I am convinced that just looking at Adriana Lima and that Alessandra chic convinces women everywhere that they are a size two. Luckily, though I am clearly NOT a size two, the jeans from Victoria’s Secret fit surprisingly well on me. And even though I’m certain I could find that booby-enhancing sweater in my hometown mall for a fraction of the price, there’s just something about seeing it on Douzan that makes me want to pay more for it.
While I am completely at home in my body, (after all, I DO have wonderful breasts to play with) I have made the decision that I could lose a few pounds. Sadly, the smell of French fries in the afternoon is enough to make me forget any such decisions. But as I fantasied about over-filling my virtual cart with designs worn by the most beautiful women in the world, I snapped out of it and said to myself, “No! No, Self! You don’t deserve any new clothes until you gracefully fit into all the cute ones you’ve never worn that hang in your closet!” And with a decisive finger, I clicked right on over to my unfinished novel, feeling only slightly powerful that I did not buy the clothes that I couldn’t afford.
The thought of losing weight is never far from my mind, but the thought of exercising is. When my Rockstar suggested last week that the reason for my chronic tiredness was lack of exercise, I calmly looked at him and retorted with, “But think how much MORE tired I’d be if I ran a mile or did situps!” Because of my chestly heritage, even if I DID lose some weight, the chances of my… ahem, upper portions fitting nicely into a size Medium sweater are slim to none. When doctors are weighing the heavy-chested, do they take into account that that extra 20 pounds they’re carrying around just might be in their bra?
Since I have no shortages of men lusting after me, it’s safe to say that I practically perfect at the size I am, but it IS frustrating when I go to try on clothes and nothing fits. So I will once again make a firm decision. I must learn to sew.