my friend came fuming from a date. she is upset (duh!) because her suitor had not given her the right name, picture, age, occupation or status. the only thing he probably admitted was his sexual orientation. she lost an evening that could have been spent in far more pleasant company. instead she had to listen to the number of the buildings that he owned, the size of his car and the shameless tirade of a dumb person. why, oh why do people do this to themselves? have they seen too many chick flicks where the main heroine/hero forgives that little oversight (oops i am actually not the same person as the pic i sent you) in under 45 minutes? do they actually think that by the time the object of their virtual affection agrees to meet, they will grow hair, lose a couple of inches, get another job, divorce, extend, and become younger?
well I have got news for them. THIS IS IT. unlike inspirational videos and “Return to Eden” there will be no rebirth, no regrowth, no renewal, no remake. please please please, clue them in and let them know that the bald spot and waist line will grow, but their washboard abs will not. let them enjoy what hair they still have left and get on with dating real women. remember virtual Internet = good, virtual girlfriend = bad, virtual hair and teeth = abominable.
while talking to her, it occurs to me that i haven’t been dating for a while. dunno why. possibly because it has been too cold. or maybe because i have been lazy. or maybe because i have been working a lot. or maybe because i can’t open my msn without an old flame or two lurking in the background. whatever the reason, the fact is that all of a sudden i am feeling the call of the mating. and where do i go when the calling starts? the Internet of course.
but first, i have to do the dreaded self review, gauge my marketability and then take the dreaded resolutions that i managed to avoid for New Year’s. so here i go, putting on my imaginary white coat, the sexy glasses, flipping hair in a french twist, and solemnly staring at myself in the bathroom mirror. the prognosis is not so good my friend – i sternly say to myself.
just look at that belly. it gloriously tops my legs and provides a soft cushiony base for my chest. my lungs were never comfier. i must admit that the belly is a work of art by itself, and wish i lived in the 13th century when such a prodigious mountain would drive Dante to another one of those long scary poems. but the evaluative doctor ncuqes convincingly and fingers her sexy glasses pensively. it has to go. belly out, waist in.
and then the backside. well it is big and mountainy, and almost interesting in its bumpiness. what an Arab wouldn’t do for such magnificent white thighs, and their giggling cellulite. if the sultan had married me instead of Shehrezadeh, I would not have needed to tell stories. and if i lived in the Samoan Island about 100 yrs ago, I would have been undisputed beauty goddess. alas, the giggling-jiggle has to stop. thigh obliterator here i come.
breast are actually hanging quite well for such old friends as they are. well there is nothing i can or want to do to them at this point. not quite up (or hanging low enough) yet for lifting surgery. and no implants thank you. i will not give in to the hype. well we actually like each-other and i hope you’ll keep your end of the bargain and gracefully spill from the shirt, and i’ll keep my end of the bargain and continue to date gentle men who do not think that milking is the only option to a splendid finish.
legs are good too. no trunk-like quality, no disturbing knees, no visible veins, and no cankles. i think that with only 300000 spinning sessions i should be able to wear a mini again. add about 1000000000000 biceps curls and i’ll be good to go.
but the doctor does not agree with me. she sternly suggests i start losing now, because pretty soon, the only people able to lift me will be crane operators. and of course your friendly albanian singles who want to live in america even at the cost of reinforcing all their furniture and expanding the door doorways. apparently that is the one field i will never lose my marketability in. at least for a couple more years. then it’s sextagenerians with grown up children, and further up dozens of cats and dogs maybe even a reptile or two.
see it is not the promise of warmth, love, sex and security that keeps single women thin and battle ready. it is rather the scare of cats and dogs with matted coats, and the prospect of being the only tone-deaf members in ethnic dance clubs. that is why women go to blind dates set up by their well meaning senior neighbors, and consider pictures of strangers thousand of miles away. it is to avoid being the spinster aunt with a mustache that shows up in every wedding and funeral and proceeds to either get smashed and dance macarena, or disapprovingly cluck at the frisky bridegroom and the drunk bridesmaid.
well, there is nothing else to do, but let my friendly fat go and start looking around. again. it can be quite fun actually.