I am growing less and less, by the day.
Last weekend, in between a quest to find the world's best jam (victorious, despite wily misdirection from the internet and two-faced cafes) and wandering about cemeteries, I had to go, of all the most horrendous things, shopping. For bras, no less, that most heinous of all heinous shopping chores. Because a year ago I stopped taking the pill, and consequently my anatomy has leaped at the chance to, er, jettison some weight.1
Last year, I visited a plastic surgeon who took my face, cut two triangles out of it, and left me looking like Zorro had dealt with me and my infamies for good.
Today, I visited a dermatologist who, for the bargain-basement price of $350, ogled me all over for scarification possibilities, jabbed me with a needle containing (admittedly boring) drugs, and stole a piece of my thigh.2
Day by day, in chunks and slices the size of pygmy shark bites, I am being whittled away.3
- I am not unhappy. It's ever so much easier to do simple things like, oh, run. Bend over. Jump. That sort of thing. [↩]
- The curse of pale skin: I leave the house, and catch cancer. Dammit. [↩]
- Luckily, I have discovered that eating with abandon can accumulate weight faster than life can carve it away from my frame, so I have no anxiety on that front. [↩]