Paranoia of Choice
I think I told you about my latest true love, the Tom Brokaw sound-a-like. He really is quite dreamy to listen to, and Shop Girl and my other friends (they're really Shop Girl's friends, I don't have that many friends, I'm an island, but more on that another day) regularly listen to his saved messages just for kicks. My brothers say that there's no way the relationship is going anywhere if I'm so open with his messages, and that I treat him like a prize animal in my 'hearing' zoo. But who cares? For the moment, I'm getting regular kisses and I'm consistently entertained by showing off his voice. And so, like any girl, this security in love leaves me free to obsess about other things.

Let's first begin at the place from which so much angst begins (and ends) -- the gym. I think my gym instructor has it in for me. She constantly looks at me as she makes these vague recommendations to the class that everyone knows are meant for yours truly, then smiles at the 'perfect' pupil on the first row. (You know the one, she's in every class. Teachers love them, girls in the back hate them and their little jog bra/no t-shirt necessary outfits.) I think they are laughing at my form. I can't help it if I can't squat and clap to pop music at the same time. Furthermore, the instructor is worse than politician - what with her 10 more, 12 more, one zillion more. What is she thinking? Is she so altered by that exercise hormone (that I've never actually experienced; exercise for me has never been anything but drudgery -- no high, ever) that she thinks I can't count just because I'm a hostage in her torture chamber? I'm considering writing a letter to drop in the 'comment on our service box'. But I sort of feel like a baby saying, "The gym instructor is a liar and she and her pet make fun of me." You see, I didn't have these troubles when I worried about boys.

And before moving forward, let's take a step back to the reason I've returned to the gym. I'm getting fat. No, it's true. This is not one of the false cries when you sort of feel a little bit chubby one day. It is confirmed by the fact that all of my fat clothes are fitting snugly and my skinny clothes haven't seen the light of summer. Woe. Woe. Woe. Where does this come from? It sneaks up on you and then just like that - your body is another's. (If you don't understand what I'm saying, you probably dance around at the front of the step class, and I may come put whipping cream in your skim milk while you sleep.) This is causing great angst for me and I'm very paranoid that all my friends (Shop Girl and her friends) are secretly talking about my girth and how I shouldn't be wearing skinny jeans with an arse as wide as a dump trunk. Additionally, I keep having to do the dodge when the Sound-a-Like reaches for my waistline/jiggly belly.

Now to move forward, ever since I asked my nail salon to use my Cutie-Kit to cut my cute's, I think they hate me and are making fun of me in their native tongue. This is quite grievous, as the pedi chair has long been a source of peace and comfort to me. Usually when I suffer extreme bouts of paranoia, I find solace in these vibrating wonders. But alas, now I feel like a leper in my own colony of comfort.

And lastly, and perhaps most importantly, I do believe that as of late I have been suffering from a false sense of cuteness. This struck severely a summer or so ago, but alas, it seems to have reared its fashionably unfit head once again. Just the other day, when thinking I was a vision of chic in all white -- I caught a glance of my reflection in the window of Krispy Kreme and realized that instead of a willowy vision of wonder in white, I was a fashion faux pas. A Glamour Don't. My jeans were too short, my shirt too tight, my scarf too school-teacher.

And so, there you have it, my dysfunctions in a nutshell. Thanks for listening. I really feel better already. As a matter of fact, I think I'm feeling a twinge of fear that the Sound-a-Like is seeing someone else. Wait... Yes, I'm quite sure that he's been paying me less attention than usual. I mean, it makes perfect sense, what with my fashion forgettableness, my roly-poly figure and my lack of gym skills. Well, this is good news indeed. The stress of the relationship will do for a good 10-pound weight loss, and who has time to fret over the manicurist when there are kisses to salvage. Hurrah! Problems solved. Must run... there is much to do.

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