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Cheap hotel thorax

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May 1, 2007

I was looking at my naked belly in the mirror this morning, because that is just the thrilling sort of life I lead, and I couldn’t help but notice that while there is actual muscle in my abdominal area now (okay, some muscles. A few. Okay, one. I call him Fred) thanks in part to that beshitted “boat” yoga pose, my midsection is not smooth and taut like a crisp Westin bedsheet. Instead, it’s kind of wrinkly and saggy like something you’d find at a Motel 6, although without the sort of stains you might find with a blacklight, thank you very much.

Even if I hold my breath and contort myself into what appears to be the most flattering angle possible—with Fred all flexed and shit—it is apparent my belly once grew several times its own size. Like the Grinch’s heart. Or one of those spongy dinosaurs you drop in water and it becomes a much larger spongy dinosaur. Or, did you see the movie Akira?

Now that my larval passenger has been vacated for 19 months and counting, it seems like my skin should have returned to its previous condition, which is to say: less discount motel-ish. But no. It’s like a stretched-out shirt, permanently attached to my body.

And my ungrateful son, for whom I have forever rendered my body unfit for all but the most demure of two-piece bathing suit options (we shall lovingly embrace the suspension of belief necessary to assume I ever would have worn a revealing bikini anyway), had the nerve to yell at me this morning—just like a pissy, emo-listening TEENAGER— when I wasn’t instantaneous enough with His Master’s juice cup, and when I handed it to him he yanked it from my grip, issuing a dismissive “Tan too” over his shoulder as he motored off.

“For this I have a Motel 6 belly?” I shouted at his retreating, midgety form. “TAN TOO DOESN’T CUT IT, MISTER.”

:::

Have any of you ever used that crazy expensive La Mer stuff? What on earth is it made out of, heroin-stuffed, blood-diamond-encrusted Beluga caviar?

:::

A conversation the other day:

JB: “Hey, do you want to go to the cabin for Mother’s Day?”

Me: “For Mother’s Day. So my Mother’s Day gift would be a weekend involving a fourteen hour round trip drive with an insane screaming toddler and a husband who refuses to give up the driver’s position because of, let me see if I can remember this right, ‘a need to be in control while the car is moving’?”

JB: “. . .”

Me: “Remember last year when you dropped the ball completely and said you didn’t think you had to get me anything because Riley wasn’t old enough to help pick it out? The only way I could have a lamer Mother’s Day than that is if we drove to the goddamned cabin.”

I know, I know, I am a giant bitch. But I ask you.

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