Conversations With My Cellulite?
You know, just the other day I was saying to myself, “Self, perhaps the reason your garden is dying isn’t the unrelenting 95+ degree temperatures we’ve been having. Perhaps it’s because you don’t talk to your plants often enough.”
So, during the 5 brief pre-dawn minutes when the temperatures actually dipped below 90 degrees, I stood in my PJs watering my garden and telling my plants how lovely they were, how yummy were their vegetables, how I simply adore the way they look on the counter sitting next to the bag of potato chips that’s infinitely more convenient to eat.
Turns out, I needn’t have wasted the time — nor alarmed my neighbors — by talking to my vegetable garden. I should have been talking to my fat cells instead.
5 Responses to “Conversations With My Cellulite?”
Haha! Funniest thing I’ve heard in a long time! Talking to my fat cells? Haha!
I have actually been talking to mine. For years, in fact. It goes something like this: Go away! Go away! Go away NOW!
Who knew?
Hey, I think I have inspiration for a book! “Improving Your Cellulite Self-Talk”. Chapters could include “Sweet Nothings For Your Lumpy Somethings”, “How To Master The One Sided Conversation” and “When All Else Fails, Buy Some Nauseatingly Expensive Cream And Rub ‘Til You’re Raw”.
I talk to my fat. I tell it that I am increasingly unhappy with the current state of affairs around here. Enough is enough – it’s time to stop rebelling against the waist of my jeans and causing major spillage where my shapely mid-section should be. My fat really needs to clean up its act. I am not an amusement park ride or a steep staircase – I don’t need no stinkin’ handles. My couch is comfortable the way it is… I do not need any more cushion. And for the love of god, my fat needs to get packing because my secret rippling muscles need some time in the spotlight.
I keep wishing my fat would go take up residence on the overly thin girl who lives down the street. She’s constantly trying to put on weight and I’m constantly trying to lose it. You’d think my fat cells could do something noble like go live where they’re wanted, but nooooo.