Pretending to be Pregnant for Better Parking

Ordering 150$ in exercise clothing made me hungry. So I took the opportunity this week to eat everything in the goddamn world with a 32 ounce fountain coke. I love my children, they are pretty awesome but it is in the frosty contents of an earth-killing styrofoam chalice from Sonic that I see the face of God.

Just kidding, I’m an atheist.

But fountain coke is the shit.

So yesterday I went cold turkey. And by cold turkey I mean that I met my friend for Bloody Marys, a Captain Morgan with Cranberry & Pineapple and a Blue Moon with orange slices. No scurvy for me! But also no caffeine, for two days in a row and NOBODY has died yet.

I had to, I was so bloated that I could pass for 6 months pregnant and get the fancy close-in parking at the kinds of stores that have that. I considered doing just that though, and letting little old ladies in line at the store rub my belly for good luck while telling them it was called Tallulah.

I still might.

Don’t ask strangers if you can rub their bellies, maybe they’re just coming off a 30 day milkshake binge and are too lazy to park far away.


Not what you’d call sporty.

So the thing is, and we can talk about this more later, I was in a cult or two as a child. This impacts more parts of my life as an adult than you might imagine. Extremes of any kind are something I really avoid, also groups of people who might be extra fanatical. Runners. Vegans. Paleo eaters. Those girls who flip tractor tires in un-air-conditioned warehouses- Cross Fitters! They seem nice and well meaning, like the buff exercise world version of the wholesome Mormon boys on bicycles. Juicers. Especially juice fasters.

I try to keep it all pretty middle of the road, and as a result I’m a little squishy. It’s fine. I blame it on quitting smoking, unfortunately that blessed event was 22 months ago and while most days I would trip a bitch for a cigarette I can’t blame my sourdough pretzel habit on my jones for nicotine. Ok, maybe I can, but I shouldn’t.

So I don’t know- do I want to run? I’ve had a strict “run from danger only” policy and even then… Are my kids safe? Because really, if they’re safe then that bear seems to be coming too fast for me. It’s probably hopeless.

Just five minutes ago my squishy self researched “running clothes for fat girls” and I found a bra that I think will keep the girls pinned down nicely while not giving me uniboob, I don’t care, I refuse to have uniboob, I don’t need to run that badly. I also got some cute shorts and a pair of socks… Will I actually run? I might never tell you. Because at some point someone will tell me I will learn to love it, that it is good for my soul, that I should stay away from the windows when the angel of death is flying by.

For real. That’s a thing. We’ll talk soon.