Speaking of 30
September 10th, 2009
Were we? I know I’m starting to think about it more. I guess it isn’t the number that matters at all, but the fact that I feel more and more discouraged about the limitations on how fantastic I can look and how novel I can feel.
For one thing, I’ve succumbed to the Freshman Four. They’re the freshman, the four are popping the buttons on me trousers. Forgive me if it isn’t fifteen, since I’m not built for that, but still. It’s hard to feel good when you can see the carbs you ate this week in your gut.
And I heard if you say sunburn backwards nine hundred and ninety-nine times, your the skin around your eyes will look young again and all that nasty damage from baking in sweat and chlorine will wash off in the shower.
I don’t know what I have to do (besides live in the gym and spend my whole day eating raw superfoods) to look right in a bathing suit, but the basics just don’t cut it anymore for this working girl. I take the stairs. I ran four miles on Tuesday. Without stopping. And it only took me forty minutes, but I haven’t done shit since except work twenty hours and assemble five separate meals. It’s only forty minutes that it takes to do it, but that doesn’t count driving there, changing, driving to day care and picking up the last solitary kid ten minutes befor they close, then going home to cook dinner, wash dishes (no dishwasher), was self, do bedtime with Babykin, and so on, then get up at 5:40 in the morning.
Fourteen and fifteen hour days are tiring. I heard that in France they get free healthcare (through high taxes, I am sure), five weeks of paid vacation every year, naps at lunchtime, and wine with dinner. Oh, and the streets are made of cheese.
Holy mackerel. I just remembered a book I saw everywhere last year.
French Women Don’t Get Fat.
Au reviour!
um… isn’t “-eaux” French? You’re not fat, btw. Katie is fat.