The holidays are upon us. And the extra calories from cookies, candy, cakes, breads, and yummy liqueurs are upon our hips and thighs—or will be soon. Didn’t we all start the process of packing on the pounds at Thanksgiving, when we stuffed ourselves silly with overflowing plates and seven different kinds of pie?
But no worries. We all know what our New Year’s resolutions will be . . . to go on a diet and finally lose those extra pounds we have been trying to dump since the age of sixteen.
Those extra pounds consist of the most fickle little fat cells, never giving the heads-up when they decide to expand, bloat up, or multiply at alarming rates. I think they’re nasty little cells and I have decided they are not worth knowing. If I ignore them long enough I am sure they will just go away, because they are petty and self-centered meanies.
The worst thing is all those clothes you get for Christmas presents. Sweaters that accentuate all the bulges with an exaggerated vengeance. Pants that make your thighs look like monolithic pillars. Don’t all your friends and family realize that buying clothes is a massively complicated affair? It requires patience, ingenuity, a sharp eye for fat-mitigating features, and most of all privacy. It takes iron willpower to get into a dressing room with hideous fluorescent lighting and avoid looking at your fat parts while focusing on your attractive parts in order to circumvent the unfair and depressing truth.
It is with such relief when you finally find that shirt, or that pair of jeans that doesn’t require sleight-of-fat viewing. When you can relax your vigilance and admire your figure from all angles. At that point I always feel the wallet in my purse start to shake, ready to eject and flip out my credit card no matter what the item costs.
We ladies have a longstanding dysfunctional relationship with our fat cells. So what to do?
Well, I could sue Hollywood, but I’m not sure that would do anything to lose the extra pounds. Only if I got a huge settlement and stayed at a spa for months, where they starve you, pummel your cellulite, and make you do yoga night and day. Then I could have a plastic surgeon suck the remaining fat out with liposuction.
If I would take my own advice, which is so much easier to give than receive, I’d stop this complaining and love myself for exactly who I am—fat cells and all. Yeah, that’s it. I’ll make a new New Year’s resolution: To love myself fat cells and all.
Then, after I love myself unconditionally, I’ll expect those nasty little fat cells to get off their butts and leave my hips and thighs for good.