Me: “My scale still hasn’t moved, but I can see and feel changes in my body, so I know the scale is just being a jerk.”
Therapist: “I’m glad you blame the scale. Some people blame themselves, thinking they have to exercise more often or restrict their diets more.”
Me: “No way. Why should *I* change? He’s the one who sucks.”
Aaand that’s how I decided to name my scale Michael Bolton.
Friend: “Do you ever buy new skincare and get super excited to try it, because just maybe it will fix your skin and all your problems?
“I went to Sephora today.”
Me: “Pretty much every time. I’m actually excited FOR you.”
Friend: “I got a sample of this and I’m very excited to try it. [preview ink]”
Me: “Holy shit, I didn’t even click it yet, but fucking TIGER GRASS. NICE.”
‘What IS it?’
‘Fuck if I know, put it on my FACE.’”
Friend: “EXACTLY. It’s the grass of the tiger, it’s the thrill of the fight…”
Me: “‘It’s only $18! I need it!’
‘Our skin doesn’t even GET red.’
‘SILENCE! I need it!’”
I am 100% willing to take part in a study on this.
For SCIENCE, of course.
I’m preliminary swimsuit shopping for my April vacation, and even on the curvy-chicks, we-need-underwires, our-models-have-an-adorable-hint-of-backfat site, I want to jump out the goddamn window.
It’s February. This layer of fat is keeping me warm, thankyouverymuch. I will be a quality buffet if the apocalypse happens — I am marbled as FUCK. And I’m also SUPER good spending my life in these oversized sweats. HMPH.
“How’s weight loss going?”
“Well, I worked out for 2 hours this morning, then had to WORK for 8, and now it’s 9 p.m. and taco delivery is on its way, and then I’m gonna go collapse in my bed in a fat, torpid, guacamole-infused heap, so…👍🏼👍🏼👍🏼“
This was in my mail when I got home, as if Cigna knew I’d ordered a big fuck-off pizza on the way.
In a related story, Cigna can eat a dick, which I hear are low in cholesterol.
EDIT
Followup: If you ever wondered, this is what happens when you tweet publicly that “Cigna can eat a dick.”
Via Ms. Andry’s Bath House on Facebook, my new #goals for the evening
Top 10 least treat-y “treat yo’self”s…
It’s been so long since I’ve had someone’s hand graze the back of my neck that I’d almost forgotten it’s one my most sensitive erogenous zones.
So praise be to lined bras, ‘cause my haircut/color could’ve just gotten hella awkward.
Smug Singleton 