Years ago, my Doctor referred me to a gynecologist so that I could talk to her about my lumps. And my psychotic reactions to birth control. (She wrapped that one up right quick.
"How many chillren You have?
YOU TIE TUBE.
How many you wann?
You tie tubes.")
(I may be paraphrasing ever so slightly)
I think I replied that if I wanted to have thirteen children and raise them naked in my garden, then that would be my choice and not hers, thankyouverymuch.
She also aggressively felt up my lumps.
And announced that caffeine was a contributing culprit.
I couldn't very well get snippy about that. My babies had been raised on cappuccino-a-la-breast milk. Coffee was my best friend, my confidant, my lover. My calorie free, guilt free, rich and ever ready comfort.
But the crazy, scarey Doc had a point.
I haven't changed.
Oh, I try.
This morning, I've sipped delicately on steaming mugs of green tea. Whose stupid idea was that stuff anyway? Camel piss. With honey. hmmmph.
I can't wait til the daughter wakes up and insists on coffee.
Then I can blame my mountainous masses on her.
Speaking of lumps and masses.
I have a very dysfunctional relationship with my body, although this is no shocking revelation. I don't want to be this way, make no mistake about it. I get all creepy and crawly when women go on and on and on about this wee imperfection, and that little crumpet they shouldn't have eaten, and blahdy blah, blah. But that's because I'm a hypocrite and I spent waaaaay to many years of my life worrying about little else. And I don't want to get sucked down into that miry pit ever again.
At times when the serotonin dips, and the uterus sloughs, my mind begins to circle. Closing in for the killing thoughts. About lumps and bumps and flacid limbs.
And I've seen enough pop-ups and books and videos and magazines and charasmatic speakers to know that one has to work aggressively to develop something akin to muscle mass.
But I'm daft that way.
And I don't really do it.
I just sit on my fadass and sip a great big mug of coffee.