Dear mum-tum. You’re a stubborn bitch. Yes, you’ve been through allot; 9 months of unprecedented expansion, followed by a sudden deflation, followed by a good 6 months of complete neglect. But the fact that you hang around long after the party is over, despite all my efforts to remove you via good eating, moderate exercise and intense death starring in the mirror, is starting to take it’s toll. You seem to have a life span similar to that of Donald Trump’s comb over, and you’re probably just as popular…
Remember that bandage dress we used to wear to the races? Yeah well, it no longer likes you. And that denim skirt we used to rely almost every day? It’s suddenly become a very unsupportive member of our closet. Oh, and that cute high-cut lace underwear doesn’t appreciate the way you resemble hotdogs in one of those rolling machines. ***insert Homer Simpson drool.
Let’s not even get started on shapewear. How is it you won’t budge an inch to squeeze into our favorite pair of jeans, but the moment we put on a pair of spanx, you morph into some kind of jello monster, and relocate to my upper back?
I don’t expect to look like Jennifer Lawrence, but we have to negotiate some kind of deal. I no longer want to be asked how far along I am. It’s awkward and increases our chances of offending that person with a sarcastic response. I would also appreciate a little more flexibility from you, especially when I’m wearing shorts. Kangaroo pouches are not in. And in return, I’ll take better care of you. I’ll do more crunches. I’ll exercise more often. I’ll even give up my weekend wines…okay I might not go that far. But when we are both feeling low, I’ll throw on some self tan, and make us look 5kg lighter instantly. Do we have a deal?
Your most loyal friend,
Owner of mum-tum.