Dear Thighs, Please Stop with All the Expanding

At some point I came across the realization that if I am headed to somewhere tropical for a week, perhaps I’d want to bring a swimsuit. Because my standard t-shirt and jeans attire is not going to cut it on the beach.

I have not gotten a new bathing suit since college. (read: 6+ years ago… at least.) That is because I would prefer to get a root canal than try on swimsuits in a department store with lots of young, waifish sales people there to see and judge.

In a desperate attempt at self-help and a nod to Global Warming (finally working in my favor, hello 60 degrees in February!) I decided to go for a jog yesterday morning, before taking the death-walk to the mall. (And by “walk” I mean “drive”. “In my new car, tra la.”) Because obviously jogging lightly for 25 minutes is going to negate an entire winter of sitting on the couch and alternating my diet between pizza and red meat. With, maybe, three total yoga classes thrown in the last four months for good measure.

Surprisingly, my jog did not delete my ever-expanding posterior.

And then the fluorescent lighting obliterated any last bit of self-esteem I might ever have had.

Sorry, baby, I used our travel insurance and we are now headed on a nice honeymoon to Antarctica where you can smooch me under my five layers of ski pants and a very poofy, fur-lined parka, and no one can tell how big anyone’s butt is, for all the layers of polypro.

Plus, penguins! Hooray!