My boobs aren't supposed to be there.

So you know when you lie on your back in bed and your boobs nearly rest in your armpits?  What is that?   Remember when you were in your 20s and the girls were pert and perky and in their place?  It's not like they're National Geographic boobs now, but as I approach 45, they do have an udder-like quality to them that they didn't once have.

I mean, sure, David's not complaining, but then dudes don't seem to mind what kind of shape the boobs are in... as long as they're boobs, you know?

When I'm lying in bed, if I tilt to my left a bit, the right one is gorgeous - it faces the ceiling perfectly, but then the left one is actually IN my armpit.  If I move too far to the left, it's like a scene from Titanic where EVERYTHING starts to slide.  Sometimes it's fun just to flop back and forth to see what happens.  If you do it in water, you can almost create your own jacuzzi. Really, this as a perk.  I should market it.

You know what would be even better?  Prehensile breasts.  Breasts that could move on their own!  No woman would need a bra because the breasts would self-adjust to the perfect level!!!  There must be scientists out there working on this!  I'm afraid to google it though - there'd be some crazy-ass shit coming up in the search results.

These thighs are not made for sconce light.

Sconce light and candle light are not the same thing.  We have these wall sconces on either side of the fireplace.  They are adorned with vellum-type shades which cast a nice glow.  The room looks warm and inviting.  My thighs in this light?  Cottage-cheesy and terrifying.

"Don't look!" I tell David.  "DON'T LOOK!"

"Don't look at what?"

"At anything!  Just close your eyes."  I desperately try to pull down my chemise so that it covers me to my knees.  My knees, at least, are pleasing to the eye.  Trouble is, the chemise really doesn't go down to my knees, so I'm now bent over at the waist, shielding the offending thigh region from the unflattering light.

All David can feel is me wriggling.  "What are you doing?"

"NOTHING!  Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain."

His eyes begin to open.

"NOOOOOOOO!!!!!"

"Would you stop?"

"I'm hideous!"

"You're not hideous.  You're badly lit."  He then gets up and turned off the sconces.  By the light of the tv my legs are spectacular!

Kick-Ass Uses for Crafting Supplies!!

Too much?

I've got boobs.  Largish ones.  On occasion, there'll be a day where I'll get dressed for work and as I'm walking to the office, I'll notice that my attire for the day is a little more low-cut than I had originally thought.  I'm not talking porn low-cut, but enough that as I'm looking down, even I get the urge to motor boat.  You know... 'cause they do look so inviting.  It's the kind of low-cut where it takes every iota of focus for David to have a conversation with me.

Sure, I do my best to make the outfit more public-appropriate.  I play around with the shoulder seams to get the neckline as far back as possible - make sure that my posture is overly straight - all the tricks so that I my co-workers don't get distracticated 'cause let's face it, even in an office full of women - 'out there' boobs can cause some commotion.

Yesterday, I thought I'd try using scotch tape to secure the edges of the neckline to my decolletage.  To no avail.  No matter how tightly you make your tape loop.  You really need double-sided clothing tape - or... OR... those super adhesive dots that you use in scrapbooking or card making!!!  I could have one of those dispenser thingies in my desk and just pop out a line of adhesive dots when a cleavage emergency arises and I'd be good to go! KICK-ASS USES FOR CRAFTING SUPPLIES!!!  Send along your own quick fixes!

Trying to love my turkey bum...

WARNING: There is Too Much Information in this post

After the second baby, I ended up with a turkey bum.  The midwifery student was given the chance to practice her stitchery on me after the episiotomy.  I think it might have been her first.  She fucked it up.  I have this extra piece of skin, that, were I a roasting fowl, would be considered a delicacy.   This extra flap - between the IN and OUT doors.  A place that I could maybe hide extra subway tokens in. 

We, as women, are encouraged to accept ourselves.  We are encouraged to revel in what makes us unique, what separates us from the flock as it were.  I find it hard to revel in my lady bits when they resemble the ass-end of a  Christmas dinner.

Is it wrong of me to wonder what would happen if I just wrapped this "Pope's Nose" really tightly with an elastic band... Would the blood flow  be cut off to such an extent that the offending skin might just fall off?  I've read that this can work for hemorrhoids.

Or wait, maybe I could vajazzle it!!!  Little bit of bling on my special thing?  Hold up now!  I'm sure there's a kink out there for this sort of thing.  There are kinks for everything.  This will be my path to making millions!  Who's with me ladies?

Not after you've had a baby vaginally you can't...

We took Rissa to Sky Zone in honour of her 13th birthday.  In case you've been under a rock, Sky Zone is Trampoline Heaven.  It is an indoor TRAMPOLINE PARK!!  Imagine a velodrome, but covered in trampolines!!!!  I know, right?!?  After having seen versions of this mythic place popping up in people's Facebook feed, David and I were so excited to discover there was one a mere hour and 15 minutes away!!   Sure, we were going 'for Rissa,' but really it was so we could bounce ourselves.

I made sure that I peed before I got onto the tramps. (Okay, now I'm visualizing myself either on top of hobos or really drunk chicks, depending on my mood.)  It's a good thing that I did pee before I bounced - otherwise I would have drenched not only my crotch, but my pant legs and probably those tramps as well.

2 bounces.  One to test the waters (oh the irony of that) and one to see how high I could get... Not very high.  It was the 2nd that had me squirting into my panties. (And not in a good way.)  2 bounces folks.  Sure I could do gentle, sorry-ass bounces and not wet myself, but any time I actually tried to show true trampoline form (I used to be a frickin' gymnast for God's sake!) I peed my pants.  I could NOT take a nice wide stance before bouncing high into the air, legs coming together, toes pointed.  I couldn't concentrate on pointing my toes when I was concertrating on NOT drenching my pants with urine.  I couldn't bounce from tramp to tramp, because every time I gathered enough kinetic energy to leap, I'd pee a little.

David was bouncing all over the place like that freakin' Jackalope from Boundin'.  He was bouncing off the side walls and leaping ALL over the place, chortling like a mad man.  He was giddy with joy. It was a sight to see.

Next time, I'm totally wearing a pair of Depends and I'm doing a frickin' routine - with my toes pointed.

  NOT what I looked like yesterday
This is Rosannagh MacLennan

I WON'T resort to bulimia, I WON'T resort to bulimia...

I had a good week last week, I really did.  I was a good girl.  I limited my intake of all the bad-for-me stuff.  I did.  I didn't eat after 7:00 p.m.  I had club soda with lime instead of the Rusty Nails and Chocolate Martinis that called to me. 

Until Saturday night.  That night it all went to hell.  After a sensible dinner of pork tenderloin salad, where did David and I go?  No Frills.  What did we buy?  Bags of gluten-free brownies, and rice chips and a tray  of Nanaimo Bars.  We went out for eggs.  If I really think about the calories I ingested, I might have to commit Hara-kiri.

Food rehab may be my only option.  If I went to food rehab, I could maybe sweat out the addiction to chocolate, sugar and salt.     This once-a-week bingeing is going to kill me.  I know that I'm an emotional eater.  I know that.  So when I'm feeling low because of my freaking ridiculous health issues, that's when I should just go to bed.  Even if it's 7:30 p.m.  I should NOT have two bowlfuls of cut up miniature gluten-free brownies with added chocolate chips, topped with a dollop of sour cream, followed by an ENTIRE FUCKING bag of dill pickle flavoured rice chips.  That is stupid.  I know that it will make me all dopey and stoned on the sugars and that I'll then feel like crap.  So why do I do it?  Why can I not eat healthfully?  Why can I not ignore these stupid-ass cravings?

Although honestly?  After I ate the two bowls of miniature gluten-free brownies with added chocolate chips,  topped with a dollop of sour cream, followed by an ENTIRE FUCKING bag of dill pickle flavoured rice chips, I didn't feel all that bad.  I thought I'd have the urge to purge, but... no.  It was all good, except for the all-consuming guilt, of which I wanted to rid myself immediately.  My strategy will now be this:  eat ALL the remaining gluten-free brownies to get them out of the house.  In one sitting if I have to.

'Cause my body can't take this.  This health issue roller-coaster is sucking the big one.  I exercise every fucking day of the week for at least 60 minutes - I shouldn't have to worry about weight gain!  This shit is actually making me contemplate bulimia.  I contemplate heading to the basement with a bowl into which I could blow chunks so that David and Rissa wouldn't hear me hurling my guts out in either one of the bathrooms.  Although, if I turned the fan ON in the upstairs bathroom... NO!!  This is NOT healthy behaviour!  Plus, I'm sure that I'd still get caught, noise really has a way of travelling in our house what with the extra staircases.  The echo of my retching into a stainless bowl would probably resonate through the entire house.  Plus, if you're woofing your cookies from self-induced retching?  You give yourself a headache and burst those wee little vessels around your eyes.  That is not a good look.

If I were an alcoholic, this is where I would now call my sponsor. 

Best trip to the gynecologist ever!

Visiting a dude whose job is to stick his hand up your hooha is not my favourite thing - (unless that dude is my husband) - but I don't dread it.  I don't get all freaked out about it.  I usually sit back with a magazine while I'm waiting... sometimes I read during the exam.  Somebody has to stick their hand up there, right?  It might as well be a person who's trained to do it. 

Although I do wonder why dudes become gynecologists.  It can't just be for the free vaginas.  As a young medical student, I'm sure that in the abstract, having a day filled with women showing you their wares would be titillating and all... but in reality - I'm betting you end up getting a whole lot of wrinkly-ass vag in your face, and I'm pretty sure that not everyone weeds around the garden if you get my meaning.

But I digress...  My most recent trip to the "lady doctor" was fantastically satisfying.  It wasn't like he gave me a leering grin and said "Oh, I like what you've done down here," before he whipped out the Hitachi Magic Wand or anything...  He told me... wait, I'm still bursting with feminine pride here...  He told me... that I have a small uterus.  NEVER in my life have I been told that I have a small ANYTHING. And now it turns out I have a small uterus.  AND small ovaries.  Petite even.  For a gal who has been at least a size 10 most of her adult life - I never thought my incubator and eggs would be defined as small.  I blushed and said in a modest tone as I waved my hand demurely, "Oh, stop... you just say that to all the girls."

So maybe that's the trick, I just need to visit specialists who concentrate on the inner parts of my body.  Maybe my appendix, too, is diminutive!  I could have copies of an MRI kept in my wallet that I could take out when I'm feeling dumpy.  Yes, I may have armpit pudge, but look at that spleen!!

Crawling back on the wagon...

I was bad last weekend.  I ate bad things.  I made bad food choices. It began innocently with gluten and sugar, then devolved into potato chips, corn twists, cookies and then ended with (shudder) amusement park donuts. Although I did discover that Chester's Corn Twists...  Pretty much gluten free!  Although deep fried in oil.

My office has bags of cookies that sit by the coffee machine.  Just sitting there.  With their gluten and their sugar and their high fructose corn syrup.  By Friday last week, my willpower had finally evaporated - I couldn't fight it any longer.  I HAD to have the Chips Ahoy cookies.  Which really pissed me off because Chips Ahoy cookies are nothing but crap.  But then I discovered that there was a leftover bag of No-Name chocolate covered almonds!!  Of course I discovered that after I'd already eaten a couple, okay 4, of the crappy Chips Ahoy.  The chocolate covered almonds were MUCH better.

Problem is, once your body has had the gluten and the sugar - you're off the wagon.  WAY off.  This shit must store in your cells, because as soon as it's back in your system - you get high and then you crash.  And it's a BAD crash.  It's a crash that makes you weepy and doubt your value in the universe, kind of crash.

This week has seen me desperately avoiding those cookies by the coffee machine and having a little extra stevia in my caffeine-free coffee with soy milk.  Mmmmmmmm...  Oh yeah, it's as good as it sounds.  For dessert I'm doing the frozen mango pieces - thank God for frozen mango pieces.  And instead of having that Rusty Nail... crap, just typing it now makes me want one... I'm having club soda with lime juice.   One day at a time, right?  I'm sitting my ass back on that wagon and revelling in its Radio Flyer rails and smooth ride. One day at a time.  I can do this.

Why CAN'T you 'spot lose' your inner thigh fat?

I know.  I know.  We've been told... and told again.  You cannot 'spot lose' weight.  Like, say, if your body is in great shape, except for your inner thighs, or back fat, or armpit pudge.  There are NO exercises that you can do to get rid of the extra flesh in one specific area.    You lose weight from all over your body when you drop the poundage.

Thing is?  I'm pretty sure that you lose it from your extremities first.  Which is why I have astonishingly delicate wrists, ankles and cheekbones for a girl of my bodaciousness.  Which would be awesome if I were completely covered from neckline to ankle, but summer's coming up and that means it's bathing suit/camisole/shorts season.

My worry is this... if I lose the extra 30 pounds that the BMI says I should lose - so that I get rid of the inner thigh, back and armpit fat - won't that mean that my wrists, ankles and cheekbones will give me the look of a cadaver, or at the very least Vera Ellen in White Christmas?

Why, oh why, can I not view myself with my spouse's eyes?  David's eyes... that love every ounce of me.  The eyes that waggle their eyebrows when he sees me bend over to do anything...  Hyper-critical Heather focuses on the back fat and the crazy-ass veins in my hands and the face wrinkles and he... he calls me beautiful.  And not only does he call me beautiful he actually believes it!

So as I sit, having had an extra helping of apple crisp after dinner, near to tears because I did not walk on the treadmill today, feeling like a slug,  I'm attempting to see myself through David-Perspective Glasses.  I just have to get through this pathetic, wallowing moment and then I can make better choices tomorrow.  There.  (deep breath) I have shaken this off and am now revelling in my delicate extremities. 

Check out the ankles on me!!

Eat more! Get skinnier!

I think I need to eat more.  At meal times.  Since I started working 'outside the home' again, my eating habits have gone to utter crap.  Over lunch I usually have a dozen rice crackers with one of those wee cans of tuna - or maybe I'll have a Lara Bar and wash it down with some herbal tea.  Here I thought with me NOT having a calorie-laden lunch - I'd be back down to fighting trim, but it seems the opposite is happening.

The muffin-top approacheth.  When I sit at the computer (which is pretty much what I do at work, and then at home when I'm writing), I am now aware of my stomach over top of whatever waistband I'm wearing.  I think it's because when I get home from work, I now feel the need to snack/binge on salty and/or chocolaty things.  On account of the fact that I might actually be, I hate to suggest this... HUNGRY?!?

So today, I'm trying something different. I'm going out on a limb. Doing something crazy.  I'm adding applesauce at lunch.  Unbelievable, right?  But maybe if I have that little something more, that's actually good for me, I might be able to get a handle on these snacky cravings that I'm having later in the day.  I might even have some carrot sticks. (I don't want to go too over the top, but it might just come to that.)  I'm trying the 'MORE healthful calories during the day = LESS compulsive salt/chocolate bingeing in the afternoon' plan... ergo... EAT MORE!  GET SKINNIER!!  Fingers crossed my hypothesis will work.

I'm just a girl who can't say no...

This is NOT me eating something bad for me..

To chocolate.  And salty foods.  And apparently Rusty Nails...  My healthful ingesting self-control seems to be at an all-time low.  What the hell is wrong with me?

And what am I eating now?  Chocolate covered pretzels.  They were a gift.  How was the gifter to know they are my kryptonite?  Salty-wheaty-chocolatey-sugar-coma-inducing kryptonite.  I can feel my throat coating with phlegm and my stomach bloating already.  It's alright.  8 pretzels = only 140 calories.  Of course I've had probably 35 pretzels - not a problem - I just won't eat dinner. And I won't wash them down with that Rusty Nail that I was craving - or at least not a double Rusty Nail.  See?  I still have self-control!

Crazy-Ass Hand Veins

When did I start having these crazy-ass hand veins?  How did that happen?!?  I'm 44 with the hands of a grandmother.  I want to raise my hands above my heart so that all the blood rushes from them and I can pretend they are still young and pretty and not all  blue and bulgy and veiny.

The last time I was under a general anesthetic?  I didn't have bulgy veins for several weeks.  It was fantastic!  My hands looked like a teenager's.  Does your blood get thinner with a general?  If I had elective surgery every little while, would my hands look younger too?  They could give me a shot of botox for my forehead lines, but do it while I was under a general and I'd wake up with a young face AND young hands. 

My hands totally give me away.  My face, from a relative distance, appears young - full of vim and vigour.  My hands?  Might be mistaken for the Evil Queen's from Disney's Snow White.  I shall endeavour to turn this into a 'glass 1/2 full' moment... If I were to be hospitalized, they'd have NO problem finding a vein for the IV.  There, see?  Always a bright side.

Although, when I'm having sex, I do try to leave my hands over my head so that David doesn't think that he's giving an octogenarian a good rogering.

Hippalicious...

I am an archer.   My arms stretch in opposing directions, pulling the nylon.  But unlike the Olympic bulls-eye 229 feet away, my target is closer.  The nylon/spandex thong in my hands is pulled near-to-tearing so that I may circumnavigate my hips. I'm Magellan!

Boy shorts don't cause this problem.  Boy shorts squoosh everything into their containing fabric.  Thongs don't have enough fabric to do that, hence the stretching.  I mean, sure, I could lose 20 lbs so that I didn't have these hippalicious bits, but the odds of that happening?  Pretty small.

It's just part of the morning routine.  You know...  You brush your teeth, you scrape all the coaty bits off your tongue, you re-adjust your bra straps annnnnd.... you stretch your thong.    Then after you put your bra on, you make sure your nipples are pointing in the same direction and you tuck your back pudge into the bra band.

There was a time when being hippalicious was not an issue... When I was 12 maybe... nope!  Not even then.  It was when I was 10... 'Cause the spring when I was 11?  I stole money from my parents and went to the Tasty Twirl and had ice cream  every day until I was caught and grounded for the entire rest of the summer.  My diet of high fructose corn syrup, proved to be my downfall.  Basically my criminal activity from age 11 has haunted me for 33 years.  Crime does NOT pay.

Funny, I don't remember taking banned substances...

A Jewel on Queen West

So I found these socks...  these mind-blowing, amazing, hyperventilation-inducing-from-so-much-glee socks...  on Queen West at a store that must, I think, cater to the drag queen set.  (Original - 515 Queen Street West in Toronto.)  This store was so awesome, I got a little dizzy.  Jon had to remind me to breathe properly as I stared at a wall of leg wear.

This store was kind of like... Heaven.  First, you walk in and there are fabulous shoes as far as the eye can see.  Floral oxfords and polka-dotted Mary Janes and Steam Punk red leather boots.  Counters with sparkly hair accessories and bracelets...  Fancy-schmancy dresses (+ a whole 2nd floor above with even MORE fancy-schmancy dresses)...   And then?  Then an entire WALL with the most fabulous socks and tights I have EVER seen.  I spied, designed in France!!!, Dub & Drino socks.  I held them to my chest like a brand new patchwork kitten.  When the cashier tried to make me hand them over to scan the price, I growled.  She eventually convinced me to move my hand closer to the scanner.

Dub & Drino tights and socks, from FRANCE

I escorted these festive foot accessories home.  Rissa got very excited when I shared their magnificence with her.  I took the socks from their cardboard banding - nearly salivating as I readied my feet for their glory...

And the fuckers didn't fit!!  When did I acquire Female Soviet Athlete calves?!?   Were my Flintstones laced with anabolic steroids in the 70s?  I could just barely get the socks on, but then my circulation was cut off from my knees down.  I got a little woobly.  I was close to weeping.  The socks, now reside in Rissa's sock drawer.

I looked on the wrapper and discovered these socks were made for sizes 5/8.5  feet.  See?  That was the problem there.  I needed either sized 9/11 socks, or the ones labelled "For those with freakishly ginormous calves."  I'm going back next time I'm in town and I'm reading the labels and I'm stocking up.  If Rissa hadn't so coveted them herself, I would have turned them into fingerless gloves for the winter.  I may still buy another pair, cut the toes off, make a thumb-hole and do just that.  'Cause you know what? My forearms WILL fit into the 5/8.5 sized socks and then the world shall marvel at my fabulous forearms and say "Oh my Heather.  Where, oh where, did you discover such marvelous mitts?"  And then?  Then I shall sing them the Ballad of the Fabulous Fingerless Gloves.

You did WHAT to your hooha?!?

		WARNING: ADULT CONTENT Cutie Pie Wax Bar - Vancouver's Waxing Destination  vajazzle Pronunciation: /vəˈdʒaz(ə)l/ –vajazzle, v.: adorn the pubic area (of a woman) with crystals, glitter, or other decoration.  Okay, have I been living under a rock?  How did I not know about this?  My friend Narda read it in a pulp fiction book and told me to Google it.  So I did.  And it's real.  It started in the UK.  Great.  We now have Bridget Jones AND vajazzling.  Seriously? What the what??  Okay first off - the whole Brazilian thing on its own?  I, like other married-for-more-than-5-years women, have done it as a surprise for the spouse.  I'm here to tell you... Ewwwwwwwww.  Your hooha winds up looking like an 11 year old girl's.  There is supposed to be hair down there.  I'm not talking like needing a weed wacker hair, but at least so you look like you've exited adolescence.   Plus, I don't know about other gals, but when I briefly went bare down there?  There was not nearly enough friction, if you know what I'm saying.  Texture was all wrong and a stiff breeze could get me all het up.  The distraction factor was at 11.   In 2010, girls began 'pimping their ride' as it were. Adding Swarovski crystals to their lady bits.  Sweet Merciful Eastern Block Aesthetician!  Wouldn't that CHAFE?  Wouldn't it give a penis road rash?    You know how the idea of having sex on a beach seems like a charming thought at the time... but when you actually have sex on the beach you end up with sand in your hooha?  Just imagine trying to dig Swarovski crystals out of there! For anyone engaging in downtown dining - razor burn would be a certainty;  errant crystals stuck underneath one's uvula, more than a probability.   Pluses?  I can see two.  If you are prone to shaving/waxing bumps, those little crystals are great at masking those areas with a curtain of bling.  But unlike Oz's curtain, gals want you to pay attention to it.   AND say you had two girls - both vajazzled - in the midst of intimacy, every pelvis to pelvis bump or grind could wind up being a potential energy source - imagine the sparks - if we could just harness that power!!  What's the phrase?  Two birds one stone?  Except this is two bushes with MANY stones.   If we charged to view that - financial crises would be averted!!  Here's an article from Daily Mail discussing Emergency room visits since the trend hit groins in 2010.  I will leave you with this elaborate holiday vajazzle courtesy of nkd () the waxing specialists with salons in Glasgow and Nottingham - now that is some holiday sparkle!  The Christmas Topiary

I'm not Scarlett O'Hara

My weekend is full of Santa Claus Parades and Peter Pan rehearsals  - so we're into reruns...

***

I'm not Scarlett O'Hara, which means a regular guy will not ever be able to sweep up into his arms.  I was reminded of this the other night when David hugged me.  I jumped up and wrapped my legs around his waist and he really did his best not to drop me or give in to the impending hernia.  He didn't grimace or anything!!  I sighed and let myself down so that we didn't hurt ourselves.

"The Scarlett O'Hara, being-carried up-the-staircase-thing, just ain't gonna happen with me."

"It's not you, it's me."

"Pardon?"

"I don't have the upper body strength.  I need to do more pushups."

"Yeah, that... and I don't weigh 120 lbs and haven't since I was 12."

"If you weighed 120 lbs, you'd look like a cadaver."

"Yes.  But I'd be a cadaver that you could then sweep into your arms and carry up the stairs."

"Not unless I do a lot more pushups."

I might have pouted.

In an uncharacteristic Caveman moment of problem-solving, David responded.  "I could drag you up by the hair."

"Tempting..."

I ain't a ballerina...

...but in my dreams I dress like one.  In my dreams I also carry myself like Audrey Hepburn.  The way she glides down a staircase in Roman Holiday?  That's how I imagine I look. In reality I have WAY more linebacker in my presentation.

I salivate as I pass by windows featuring adorable little smock-like dresses.  There was a shop just down the street that had a window full of clothing made for women with no boobs.  I coveted everything in this shop.

This shop had precious clothing for A or B cup ballerina women who can wear something sans defined waist-lines without looking like they're pregnant.   A-line and over-dresses in wild patterns that are made for teenagers or twenty-somethings without  my 36DD chest.  In the 90s, I wore tonnes of clothing that wasn't right for my body type.  Long tunic sweaters that went down almost to my knees.  It's no wonder that people kept offering me their seats on public transit.  With boobs my size, if I wear something waistless I'm going to look 5-6 months pregnant just from the shelf of my rack.

Basically whatever shape you are - you need to wear clothes which accentuate that shape.  I am a generous version of the hour-glass.  I have NEVER been that petite, dude-can-sweep-me-into-his arms, flat-chested girl.  I am more of the emphasize-the-tits-and-ass kind of gal.  But that doesn't stop me from wanting to be able to wear all the pretty ballerina-y dresses that my 12 year old daughter can wear.  Of course Rissa actually IS a ballerina with little to no body fat on her.

I know, I know - women always want what they don't have.  If you have large boobs, you want perky boobs, if you have small boobs, you want large ones.  Curly-haired redheads want to have straight raven black or blond hair.  If you have long legs... okay really, who am I kidding, NOBODY wants short legs. 

Once I knew that I had to wear things that fit my shape, life got easier.  And then when Mad Men came on?  I was pretty much in Nirvana!!!  Curvaceous women celebrated on television?

1960s-inspired clothing actually IN stores?  A freaking dream come true for girls like me.  I embrace my curves.  There are tonnes of women who don't.  Women who think they're hiding what they consider figure-flaws by wearing baggy clothing and un-flattering undergarments.  These women are wrong.

My Mum came downstairs one day wearing a forest green velour upscale tracksuit (just even typing those adjectives make me shudder) she had received from a family friend who was cleaning out her closet.

"Look what I got - it's practically new!!"

"Mum it doesn't FIT you.  It's too big in the shoulders, the bust - the hips -  it's too big EVERYWHERE.

"Oh... it's fine."

"Mum the pants are ginormous on you."

And then Rissa walked into the room "Wow, Mor-Mor - that's a LOT of crotch!"    This observation held so much more weight than anything I could say.  The tracksuit has been retired.

I ain't 20 any more...

So yesterday I spent a lot of time on my feet.  A LOT.  And those feet were in boots with heels.  Not crazy-high heels, but high enough that when I stopped moving at the end of the day?  I thought I might die.  I'm pretty sure that the balls of my feet exploded.  I might just be walking on stumps now.

How is it that it's only when you STOP that you realize how much your body has betrayed you? Not just the feet - which to be fair had been wearing said boots for about 6 hours and had every right to explode (memorial service later today), but my hips... GOOD GOD my hips!  And my back, and Achilles tendons - which totally relates to wearing the heels as well...  Done... Gone... Kaput.

See, we were dancing.  The regular dancing was fine.  David and I then decided to a little bit of swing dancing.  That's when my hips went. 

Sexy, non?

"Well Mary, I'll tell you...  My hips are giving me such grief.  I can barely get through Flip, Flop & Fly without having a rest break for these old girls."

There's something about the doing the triple step, triple step, rock step ... that bounce on my joints? In heels?  After one song the pain started.  A smart girl would have stopped.  A smart girl would have said, "Thank you darling, but no.  I need to rest now and take some Advil for my inflamed hips."  But swing dancing is so much FUN!  It's about the most fun you can have without it turning into an orgasm. (Although maybe if you kept dancing...)  Some might say that roller coasters would offer more bang (HAH!), but swing dancing has much less screaming, more laughter and lasts longer than a typical roller coaster.   

It goes back to my youth.  I was a gymnast.  Between the ages of 8-16, I was very bendy.  (Steady there boys.)   That's what's done me in.  I have these hyper-flexible joints in my hips and back.  I was TOO flexible, or so the physiotherapists have since told me.   "Oh here's your problem... your tendons don't support any of your joints any more.  Nope, we can't help you with that. By the time you're 60, you're pretty much fucked."  Which is why my back, hips and even Achilles tendons began to betray me as early as my 20s.

But I've figured it all out!  The NEXT time I swing dance?  No heels for me!  I'm going to wear saddle shoes! Or Keds with the rubberized soles all slidey and worn out.  I'll take the Advil first, ice between songs and get David to rub me all over with Traumeel afterward.  'Cause I ain't NOT going to dance.

A little rub'll do ya!

Taming your Tatas...

Two is so much better than one!  Double the sports bra - 1/4 the bounce.

Okay ladies.  If you have ANY more than a B cup and you do ANY sort of exercise that has you moving faster than a saunter, you need to wear the appropriate sports bra.  Hell, wear TWO sports bras.  AT THE SAME TIME.  OVER TOP OF EACH OTHER.  Unless you are aiming for breasts that settle around your navel, in which case, keep doing what you're doing - by Christmas you'll have met your goal.   Good for you!

I go to the Y.  I ride the recumbent cycle.  As I pedal my ass off, I have a view of the treadmills and elliptical machines and there are WAY too many ladies out there who are WAY too under-supported in their breastal region.  Frankly, I'm surprised that more of them aren't leaving the building with black eyes from those breasts just a-flapping and ba-doinking all over the place.  I watch these gals and MY upper chest muscles hurt.  Please ladies, strap your girls down - I promise it'll serve you well.  I PROMISE.

I recognize that not everyone can afford the fancy schmancy sports bras that will offer Total Tata Support (TTS).  But we can all afford the cheap-ass sports bras.  Just buy them a size smaller and wear two of them!  I'm a D cup and I wear the tightest possible sports bras - ON TOP OF EACH OTHER.  The ones that accentuate my armpit and back pudge and leave nasty dermatographia (those lines that you get on your skin when clothes are too tight or your pillow is too wrinkly).   But you know what?  When I go for a fitting at Victoria's Secret, the salesgirls are astounded that not only  did I breastfeed my daugther, but that my boobs belong to a gal who's 44.  No, the girls aren't as firm as once they was, but they are at least in the same general area at which they started.

And by the by... In regular bras?  Your nipples?  They should be aiming OUT, not DOWN.  So heft your girls up, using those adjustment straps, OWN your curves and bask in the beauty that is you.  You have boobs.  Treat them well and they'll stay relatively where they're supposed to and not become something to tuck into the top of your pants.

DOGGIE Boob Scarf as seen in The Regretsy Christmas Special Featuring JACK the PUG
http://www.etsy.com/shop/boobsRus?ref=shop_sugg

I know they are there - I can feel them!!!

Okay...  So neck hair...  What the pooh?  First off, why do women even GET neck hair?  Does HRT get rid of neck hair?  If it does, damn the health consequences - I'm in!  Yes, I'm that vain.  You get more vain the wrinklier and hairier you get.

Secondly, half the time you can't SEE the neck hair, but you can FEEL them.  To which David says "If nobody but you can see them, why are you so worried about them?"  BECAUSE I KNOW THEY'RE THERE!  It's what happens when you're sitting in front of the t.v. minding your own business.   You might reach up to brush something off your neck and then you feel the hairs (yes PLURAL) and you have to run to the bathroom and grab the tweezers.  Because the worst scenario is you NOT noticing them until they're very dark, a cm long and you start looking like Billy Vann in drag as Griselda from the Hilarious House of Frightenstein.  And you think to yourself, My GOD!  How have I NOT seen this??  Which probably means that up until that time, people have been politely ignoring your transformation into the Wild Wolfwoman of Wagga Wagga. 

And then sometimes, there are grey neck hairs, which you really can't see, but are even coarser than regular neck hairs which means that you feel them EVEN MORE and then become obsessed about getting rid of them.  Grey, coarse neck hairs drive a woman insane and are like poop icing on an already shitty cupcake.  Plus, did you know that laser hair removal can't remove grey hairs??  Because they laser can't see the follicles.  I thought lasers were smarter than that.

Really, what you need, is a miner's helmet and a magnifying mirror that you can sit in front of.  Because the bathroom mirror, you can't get close enough to, usually because of the sink, and if you get the magnifying mirror up to your face, then you only have the one hand and you can't use the other hand to identify the hair on your neck.  (Here.  Here is where you should be ripping hairs from your neck.)   You haphazardly start tweezing the fine hairs that totally belong on one's neck.  And if you try to sit with a magnifying mirror, it's never at neck level and you have to skooch down and you might put your back out doing that. 

This past week, we were staying in a condo that didn't have mirror over the bathrrom sink, (they are renovating) which meant that if you were going to stand in front of a mirror you had to stand wedged beside the toilet to look at the side medicine cabinet adjacent to the sinks.  This meant that that you were WAY far away from the mirror.  Or you were putting your back out trying to twist your body sideways over the cabinet to look into the mirror.

Okay, imagine there is no mirror overtop of the sinks, but only the one on the side.  And you have to ignore the magnifying shaving mirror in this picture, because our bathroom didn't have that. Otherwise, I wouldn't be complaining so much right now.  Also, imagine that there is a toilet approximately 9 inches away from the right hand side of the sink cabinet which is where you have to stand to see yourself in the mirror.

 

 

Then I thought!  Flashlight tweezers!!  Right?  Tweezers with a flashlight attached to them!  I'm sure that I could use a wee flashlight and some duct tape and whip something together.  Doesn't that make complete sense?  Of course, we don't have a tiny flashlight anywhere and though I do keep the plastic handle of my curling iron on with electrical tape, I though that my flashlight tweezers with duct tape might look a little déclassé.  Unless I used coloured duct tape, then it could be a statement.  

But then when I actually googled flashlight tweezers, I found these!!!  These might be my salvation.  Plus they're pretty spiffy looking, yes?  And if I ever have to be in a Sci-Fi film they'd be awesome as something to insert into a body cavity to look for alien caviar.

Possible salvation for the overly-hirsuit