Here I sit, waiting for my BRAND-SPANKING NEW thyroid pills to miraculously turn me into the svelte young perky-boobed thing I was in my early 20's. VERY early 20's. Like 20. And possibly 21, before I dated Sky King and got all, "damn, is that cake--hook a sistah up!"
Because that bag of doorknobs? My ass.
That sack of feral cats fighting? My belly, hanging over my stretchy-yet-cotton-y panties (Man, I LOVE Lyca!).
Those (as Monkey Boy refers to them) saggy flapjacks? The same saggy flapjacks that fed two children for apparently WAY too long. When I'm trying to look sexy for Sky King, I tuck most of the mass into my shaved-within-the-past-week pits. That way, I have cleavage, instead of CLEAVAGE.
On a related note, did you know that boob sweat can void the warranty on your cell phone? Ladies, keep those iPhones away from the twins.
So, as I said, I'm waiting for the weight to drop off-, sloughing off into the ether, leaving me tan, hot, and about 5 inches taller. Or at least able to wear my least-stretchy jeans. When I can actually tolerate clothing that restricts air flow.
A girl can dream, can't she?