Now I realize at my age I will never qualify as a trophy wife. As a matter of fact the only trophy I'll be is the kind you find hanging on the wall at a sports lodge. I have been enduring grueling workouts for more than a year now and still -- a description of me would not entail the word "thin."
I climb those stairs nearly daily as if to find nirvana at the top, yet all I do is fantasize of quicker ways to reach the fountain of youth, such as strategically placed surgical adhesive under my chin to pull back the extra layer of skin I've accumulated; and stretching it back to my spine at the nape of my neck.
I admittedly do have more muscle mass, but I'm guessing if the Jolly Green Giant threw me in a frying pan, the aroma of sizzling bacon would emit the air. That is not to say that in a strength competition with a 20-year-old girl I wouldn't prevail. I told my trainer to find any sedentary, chicken wing eating 20-year-old girl who just underwent knee surgery, and I'll show you how this 49-year-old mountain of steel can kick some butt. My glutes are as rock-hard as a partially inflated soccer ball.
You see, I'm back to self-loathing due to the fact that through no fault of my own, I've been accumulating new girlfriends who are at least a decade or more younger than I. However, as soon as I start dating again, the only sight of these new girls will be in my rear view mirror.
I knew this good mood couldn't last forever. Thank God. I also realize I haven't had to self-deprecate for the past week, because I've wallowed in my BFF's own version of such for the past week. I'm pretty sure Be-Be's mood is to blame for the trembling earth. I know it isn't easy being Be-Be, but you should try on the "her best friend" shoe one time. I'm just saying.
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