Wow can you believe it? We have been together for 36 years, 7 months and 21 days now. It hardly seems that long. We've had some incredibly good times together. The Jubilant First Steps of '72. Operation No Training Wheels of '76. The Far Out Roller Boogie of '77. Oh how we loved the way our legs looked in our skates and knee high tube socks.
Remember Beginning Ballet in 1978? And Madame Whatsherface asked us to come to the front of the class to demonstrate the five positions? Remember when she told us we were exquisite? Such a pretty word to say to a chubby seven year old girl. And even now our husband makes fun of us because we often stand with our feet in third position. Exquisitely.
Or what about The Great Badminton Smackdown of Ninth Grade PE? We finally found a sport where we didn't totally suck. And even though other people laughed when we called it a sport, we didn't care. Because we rocked at it. Plus we giggled when we said "shuttlecock." And still to this very day, it makes us giggle like a fourteen year old.
We'll always have the 1990 Winter of Jazzercise. That was the best we have ever looked. And we still have the size four prom dress to prove it. Aaahh, good times.
We've had our fair share of battles. There was the Day Roller Boogie Died, otherwise known as the Broken Arm of '82. Then came The Anaphyllaxis Scare of '85 (my dad didn't think that one was so much fun), The Epidural Rejection of '97 (and yes, I'm still bitter), the Great Gallbladder Recon of 2002, and our most recent battle, still in progress: Mission Smokin' Hot April - The Return.
We haven't always agreed on everything. I would like to partake in the latest fad of plaid walking shorts, but you insist upon depositing fat reserves in our hips and thighs. In case you didn't know, Madras + Saddlebags = What Not To Wear. If I have a craving for orange juice, I mistakenly take that as a signal that you are asking for it. However, you cruelly force me to suffer from the worst indigestion and heartburn for days after it is ingested. What's up with that? And I love Nars lipsticks, but you insist upon the lips breaking out and swelling up if I even say the word "Nars," and not in a sexy Angelina way either. Although our husband and bank account appreciate your lipstick discernment, I would very much like you to butt out.
Yet, aside from our differences, most of the time we have managed to compromise in some way. I stop eating crap, you ease up on the muffin top. I drink more water, you provide me with three weeks a month of practically blemish free skin. I hit the treadmill, you triple my energy level and allow me the most restful sleep.
So I really felt like we were finally connecting. Finally finding a way to peacefully coexist. I was accepting your flaws, and in return you were accepting the occasional bacon cheeseburger with very little consequence. But lately, I feel you are turning on me. And it may have started out as a practical joke on your part, but now you are becoming just plain spiteful.
I didn't say anything about the stretch marks during Operation Baby Maker 2000. And I kept my mouth shut when you decided our feet needed to add a half size after Operation Baby Maker 2003. Do you have any idea how many precious pairs of shoes I had to part with? I am still in mourning over the loss of my strappy red satin hooker heels. Every time I see a garage sale sign, the memories come flooding back of the horrible day I let them go for three dollars. Three. Dollars. I bit my tongue until it bled when you decided, without consulting me, that after five years of wearing Clinique Happy perfume, you were going to change our chemistry so instead of the fresh, citrus scent we were used to, we now smelled like a mix between freshly mowed grass, skunk and rotting beef. Not cool.
Your diabolical schemes to rob me of my self esteem have gone on long enough. I am not going to sit idly by and allow you to sabotage our most important battle yet: Mission Smokin' Hot April - The Return. With that said, there are some issues that require your immediate attention.
First, I do not appreciate you surrendering "the girls" to the all mighty Gravity. Who do you think you are leaving your post in the middle of a mission? The girls have been through a lot, providing more than 12 months of nourishment for each of the three babies. I know they are tired and down trodden. And yet I still believe in them. With the help of my friend Victoria and her many secrets, they still have a few good years left. I am not ready to give up on them. So consider this your one and only notice: Perk up or they are getting replaced.
Secondly, you know how concerned I was when I started losing so much hair. I called the doctor and consulted with a nutritionist. So what if I am considering the weight watchers leader a nutritionist? At least I talked to people. And I was told by both of these reliable sources that the sudden hair loss was probably due to your shock at my weight loss. After all those years of me threatening, you never believed I would step up and follow through. It was like you went nuts with the downsizing. "Well we have all this extra hair, let's throw out the old and bring in some new!" Yeah, that would have been fine and dandy, except I noticed a few weeks ago that the new hair you ordered is the wrong texture and color. Our hair is straight dark brown with natural chestnut highlights. This cheap crap you replaced it with is stiff, wiry and silver. And resistant to chemical coloring products. Un-freaking-acceptable!
Finally, this last item is what caused me to lose my patience with you. I know you think you are being funny, but when I've got my game face on, I have no sense of humor. So I would appreciate the elimination of the hair that you jokingly allowed to take over my chin. I am the mother of three, I do not have the time or resources to spend all morning in front of the magnifying mirror with several pairs of tweezers. I have breakfast to make, lunches to pack and kids to get to school. On time. Have you seen some of these moms at my kids' school? Then you know what I am up against. I don't care if they are more plastic than Boo's barbies. I need to represent.
Look. For the most part, I have been good to you. I have never filled your lungs with first hand cigarette smoke. Your mouth, nose and veins have always been a drug free zone. And except for the occasional margarita, Bahama Mama and that week in Munich last year, I have not subjected you to an overuse of alcohol. I am obsessive compulsive about brushing teeth, removing makeup before bed, and seeing Dr. Phillips for our annual, ahem, oil changes. I diligently check the girls each month for lumps, I routinely slather on the SPF 50 and I make sure I get a minimum of 64 ounces of water each day. I am trying my best to do my part on all things we can control. Give a sister a break!
We are 36. Nowhere near menopause. Not even close to the AARP. Haven't even reached our prime. Plus haven't you heard? Forty is the new thirty. Yeah, I have no idea what that means either. All I am saying is that according to my life line and my Great Aunt Rosie who supposedly had "the gift," we've got a long ride ahead of us. Let's find a way to get along.
Or so help me God, I will make an appointment with some snotty Scottsdale cosmetic surgeon faster than you can say extreme makeover.