Dear Body

Dear Body,

You and I have been at odds for a very long time, but I did feel as though we had reached an agreement in principal, if not in documentation: you don't mess with me, I won't mess with you. Might I remind you that a verbal agreement is binding in the State of California? And yes, talking to yourself does so count. Nevertheless, I overlooked the ways you violated this agreement throughout the years.

I don't like people, so the "no dinner" rule seemed like a good way to avoid social interaction, as well as food. I understand you don't handle stress very well (no one does), so I didn't let the doctors poke and prod you much when you waged a battle against my life. In retrospect, the thought of spending the weekend with The EX should have been a vomit inducing prospect, so I respected your choice in the matter. Also, who hasn't slipped into a semi-catatonic state when confronted with someone they admire—technically a violation, but probably some defense mechanism that kept me from doing something stupid like… speaking.

But now you've gone too far. This rubber, blubbery, middle thing you've got going on is unacceptable. It is true that I don't like belts, but there is no need for you to try to keep my pants up by having bits of you hang so far over the waistband that it looks like you are gripping the pants for dear life. I realize I'm slightly north of 25, but there is no reason for my thighs to take on the look of aged burrata – if the aging process involved leaving it out in the sun for several days. I'm dangerously close to resorting to flipping the breasts over your shoulder in order to put on my shoes in the morning. And that ass thing you've got going on? I really don't think it's supposed to do that.

Please consider this fair warning. If you don't shape up on your own, I will be forced to take drastic measures. Don't think I'm serious? Let's just say Freddy Krueger would be the one having nightmares at what I'm contemplating for you. That's right—it might involve a sit-up… possibly a piece of lettuce. I know you don't want that. I don't want to cut you off from the nacho cheesey goodness, the margaritas or what we are euphemistically referring to as "wine research". But I will do it. And you know when I'm determined, I will do whatever it takes… for like a good 40 minutes—possibly an hour.

You have been warned.

Kate