Okay, so maybe I'm being overly dramatic, but the sad realization and truth is that the only thing that makes my butt look small is my gut. Lurker Traci... it's going to take more than high doses of tranquilizers to get my fat ass to the twenty-year reunion of the class from hell. What say we just go as far as Lake Geneva and spa it for a few days instead? We could get massages from well-muscled blonde boys named Sven and Hans, eat prissy, tiny food off huge, near-empty plates, then decide to sneak out to the bars (after all the kids were in bed, of course) and eat our combined weights in fried cheese curds and onion rings and wash it down with anything but 'table wine'. You in?
How did this happen? This middle-agedness. The ol' broad in the bathroom mirror freaks me out a little. I guess it helps that I'm now a brunette... I can refuse to recognize myself. Seriously, though... can you think of one good reason we should go to that reunion? Call me. And my chopstick diet isn't going well (as you may have surmised) because, in true slacker fashion, I made the lazy discovery of a lifetime. You just have to stab your food. I'm off to the shop now, in hopes of actually getting some sewing done, as Sundays are so slow. Type at you later. C