I remember one hot summer night, I sneaked out of my house (Refer to The great escape) and went to a friend’s McMansion for a late night pool party. Being that her parents were out-of-town, there were questionable people and party favors present. Not having brought a bathing suit, I took off my clothes and jumped in the pool with just a bra and thong.
Me. In a thong. I haven’t worn a thong since I discovered boy shorts, as they are the only thing that can properly contain my ass. But that just proves that once, a long time ago, I was thin.
It was around the same time that I felt comfortable fishing in my bikini. Me. In a bikini. I haven’t worn one since I wore thongs. Thong underwear, never a thong bikini. I was shy back then.
I’m telling you this because I believe that you never really know how thin you were until you’re not. There’s no point of reference. Until you’re fat. It hits you when attempting to put on your old jeans, only to discover that you look like a container of jello pudding after a four-year old squeezed it.
Life lesson #2, 678: Skinny jeans are for Skinny people.
I can’t tell if I look like a container of jello because, you see, I’ve laid down flat, hoping gravity will help bring up my jeans. Only, I’ve exhausted myself in the process. So, I’ve opened my laptop and started writing, in the hopes that the heat from the computer lamp will help me shed that extra inch.
Five minutes later…
Being almost over the last bit of ass hump and not completely camel toed, I’ve decided to give it one more heave-ho. But it was followed by a loud popping sound from my shoulder. I am too scared to get up right now. But I can still type with one hand. So, I’ll be here, checking some email until someone finds me and either pops my shoulder back in or takes off my pants. I’m in room 4500. Thanks.