Recent self-reflections

I ran my hands through my hair the other day in an effort to help it dry and came away with a lot of grey hairs. Actually, not a one of the hairs that fell out was brown. I guess that's a good thing. Maybe the browns are holding on tight, afraid of being outnumbered. Or maybe I should have lived in a time when powdering your hair was a la mode since the greys do seem to be coming in at a rapid clip. I'd say I frost my hair given the current state of my head but the 70's are on their way out again and frankly, I don't look great in plaid (madras, now, that's a whole other thing).

I suspect that doing a measly ten push-ups a day isn't going to do much for my flabby upper arms. But really, is it too much to ask to not look like a flying squirrel (a *grey* flying squirrel) when I hold my arms out? Of course, my little hand weights seem to have disappeared and I refuse to try D.'s. Not only are they chunky and ugly, but they are heavy. You could really hurt yourself with those suckers!

I also wonder how effective the push-ups are if you only lower your body until your squishy, pendulous, stretch-marked tum grazes the floor. I mean, I don't know who I could possibly be describing here at all (not me, no way, um huh) but if you barely have to bend your arms and you're there, well, it can't be much of an exercise. It's like there needs to be the midsection equivalent of a sports bra to keep all wayward swinging bits appropriately in check. Oh, and yes, I know I shouldn't have my head down enough to be looking at my stomach anyway but it's a bit like a gawking at a train wreck. There might not be any blood but it is an ugly, ugly sight. One from which you just can't look away. Or so I imagine it would be, if it was me, which it's not.

Yesterday morning I hopped on the scale and the first of three readings was a number I haven't seen in quite some time. Of course, times two and three were just 0.2 lbs. enough more to make it a number that was not nearly as psychologically lovely. Don't ask about the obsessive compulsive three times on the scale thing. I am who I am and that's all there is to that. But that first number sort of excited me. So I celebrated by having cheesecake at bookclub. Seriously, I wrote the book on sabotage.

And further more, that Weight Watchers leader who said that every ten pounds was a pants size is a lying piece of caca-poo-poo. Almost ten pounds later and some of my cutest pants still strangle me about the waist (although the pendulous flab I don't admit to means that I can relocate the fat enough to actually get them buttoned) and give me the ever attractive camel-toe look. These suckers are going to be long out of style before I ever get to wear them in public.

I'm also thinking of seeing if any of the local laser hair removal places have any folks that need to bone up on their skills because I'm happy to offer up my chin, free of charge, for experimentation. Home depilatory methods are akin to picking bristles out of an ox-hair brush, one bristle at a time. And the last thing my husband needs is beard burn on *his* face given that he's already suffering the ignominious fate of having married the bearded lady. But I have a plan to distract him from my five o'clock shadow. If I neglect to shave my legs, the prickly badness of those bad boys should effectively deflect all focus on the chin, right?

So, after all that, let me please remind you all. Please don't hate me because I'm beautiful. ::snort::