Getting dressed this morning. Standing naked in front of my full-length mirror, which gets less scary with each passing week, and run into an old friend.
Hello, waist!
Am inspired to try the blue pants. They have survived the purge, if only because I loved them so much and they used to make my ass look less like a flounder's cousin and more like a, well, booty.
Keeping in mind the mantra, "no expectations, no expectations, no expectations," remembering the last time I tried them on a couple months ago, I COULDN'T PULL THE TWO SIDES OF THE ZIPPER TOGETHER, and there! They go on easily. Not a pinch at the waist. The zipper glides up without a hitch. I turn to the side, sucking in. Two months ago, the sucking in only resulted in a less-prominent blub of belly fat. Now, the suck-in results in -- holy successful diet, batman! -- a flat profile.
I walk around for the first part of the day feeling all, "I'm so hot!" I admire myself in every window I pass. I think I look FINE.
Then I sit down at the freelancers computer, where someone has left the PhotoBooth utility up. I am faced with myself in all of my un-retouched glory.
You know, it doesn't pay to think too well of oneself. There is always a camera to remind you that you aren't as cute as you think you are.
And that, I believe, is what is called Instant Karmic Retribution.
No, I take that back. Fuck that. I worked damn hard to get into those frickin' blue pants.
Next goal, the same pair of pants, in camel, size 8.
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