I was told that this issue was allegedly to be about WELLness or some such fol-de-rol. Hmph. I don’t know if that was intended to be some kind of not-so-subtle HINT to me personally or not, but it is certainly beginning to feel that way.
Everywhere I turn, I am assaulted with detailed descriptions of Other Peoples’ Recovery from Sloth and Fat, coupled with endless exhortations for everyone (including and/or especially me) to join in the group, jump-onto-the-bandwagon of WELLness — even in my constant attempts to turn AWAY from these Look!-Now-I’m-Tiny! Tales, I am met with even more of the same.
WELL, all I can say (all that would be considered for print in this publication anyway) is WELL, FINE. It’s bad enough that every single star of stage, screen and/or television who, up until very recently, had been somewhat normal-sized — which, in today’s world means “anything over a size 2” — has now, by some “miracle” of abstinence from all consumables with caloric content and constant physical exertion, managed to go from a size 10 (which would seem to ME to be a perfectly acceptable size for a human woman to be, but apparently, in the media, qualifies one for employment with a circus sideshow) to toddler-wear … and if they turn sideways, they disappear.
WELL, I personally believe they have all found a surgeon willing to remove their tongues, making it impossible for them to swallow anything at all. The old-fashioned remedy of wiring one’s jaws shut was rendered ineffective by the invention of the Cuisinart, which made it possible to suck entire seven-course meals through a straw. So I’m thinking the tongues had to go — and that’s why you mostly just see photos of the newly-skinny folks. They can no longer speak; but hey, they LOOK fantastic — once the camera has added enough pounds to make them actually visible to the naked eye.
WELL, seeing all those celebs getting skinny was bad enough. But, now — NOW — it has slapped me in the face on a much more local and personal level. My (former) dear friend George, the Head SPQ Wannabe, has dropped between 40 and 700 pounds (I forget the exact number on purpose … because it annoys me so), and if that were not enough to jeopardize our friendship, NOW he has gone and really crossed a line — a finish line, to be more specific — and he has done it on multiple occasions, therefore making it impossible for me to dismiss it as a one-time aberration and just overlook it.
WELL, if this is not a howdy-doo of the finest order, my (former) dear friend George has gone and started running and not even for the sake of being the first in line at a buffet (which would at least be fun and, in my opinion, sensible), but for the sole purpose of WELL, running, in events with the letter “K” attached, as in 3-, 5-, or even 8-K.
WELL, I suppose if I am not to be the ONLY fat person left in Mississippi, I shall have to join him. With that in mind, I had all manner of medical tests performed on myself — halfway in hopes of finding Something That Would Prohibit my participation in any sort of physical exertions. Well, it all turned out FINE, and I have been pronounced fit as a fiddle — whatever that means. What would an unfit fiddle look like? No one knows or cares apparently.
WELL, having been shamed into most reluctant and crabby participation, I am now off to begin my new WELLness regimen (visualize the scowl). It’s either that or track down that tongue-surgeon, which I am unwilling to do. I am too big a blabbermouth, and I also need something to stick out and make razzberries with — at GEORGE.
