Specifically, the five damn pounds that doesn’t want to leave after you turn forty.
It’s like it’s trying to be comforting or something. “It’s ok you’re not young and pretty anymore, we’ll never leave you!”
Five pounds wouldn’t be a big deal except for two reasons:
1: My fat thinks I’m a guy. Apparently it’s fooled by my ability to use a power drill and read road maps. So instead of distributing itself evenly , or adding a little padding to my butt and thighs, it all goes straight on my belly. The only reason I don’t look kind of pregnant is because my belly pooch is still WAY overshadowed by my ludicrous and unavoidable bosom. Meanwhile, I have an ass like a ten year old boy.
2: If I go even a few pounds over my ideal supermodel weight, I start to snore. No, I don’t mean a light and delicate lady-like purring, I mean snore like a freight train. Like a freight train driven by a lumberjack with a foghorn, and filled with warthogs. Warthogs with sinus infections. I’d say “allegedly” except once, Offspring #1 recorded me. And whatever severe punishment my husband might deserve for his various sins, he doesn’t deserve to sleep next to that unholy cacophony.
I USED to be able to drop five pounds with a little calorie cutback …..but now? Crap. I might have to exercise. Unless I can find a unicorn to do THAT for me.