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Just Call Me Nostradumpyass

OK.  Don’t panic.  Do.  Not.  Panic.

Stop!  Why are you panicking?  Did I not just tell you DON’T PANIC?!!!!

Yeah.  I know. It didn’t work with me either.

I don’t know what you’re not panicking about.  But here is my most recent disaster.

I tried to put on my jeans yesterday, and they did not fit.

Crap.

I kind of suspected that day was coming, but it was still a pretty tough blow when it happened.

So, I panicked.

But nobody knew it.  I inner-panicked.  That is my clever way of secretly panicking without anyone knowing.  It requires great will-power.  Almost as much will-power as not eating so much that one goes up a pants size.

No tantrums or tears.  No boxing up my entire closet to truck on over to Goodwill.

Just a very quiet panic while I looked for some more forgiving jeans that say they are the same size, but obviously can’t be because they fit fine.

Finding the forgiving jeans helped to reduce the major panic to a slightly less heart-attack inducing one.  Slightly.

I know why this happened.  When I first started this blog, I posted an article about my desire to be a writer.  The post was entitled, “I Might Get Fat.”

And I did.

Granted, I have not become a published awriter.  And I have not quit my job.  Two of the contributing factors to my then future fear of getting fat.  But, don’t you think the fact that I predicted something happening and it has now happened is more than just a mere coincidence?

Maybe, it is the fault of my Irritating Bogus Diagnosis that has absolutely no medical explanation but continues to make my life miserable, changing my once fairly consistent diet into some wild roller coaster ride of experimental foods as I continue my quest for something that won’t nauseate or constipate me.

Or, maybe it’s because whenever I feel like panicking, I internalize it, and I am now bloating up with all of those undigested panics.

Perhaps, it is a sympathy weight gain to show my love for my dear bulldog, Wonderbutt, who tips the scales at 65 pounds, about 250 pounds more than he is supposed to weigh, apparently.

Do these jeans make me look fat?

Who cares?  When a tsunami flattens your house and you are clinging to an indestructible, eco-friendly, buoyant dog toy for dear life, do you waste your time wondering why this happened?

I must come up with a Plan.

On the bright side, I don’t have to worry about quitting my job to be a writer making me fat since I already am.  Fat, I mean.  Not a writer.  Well, I am a writer.  Just not paid for it.

I shall ponder that while I eat my Hostess Ding Dong.  Hey, at least I’m not filing for bankruptcy.  Because that was totally unforeseeable during these health trendy times…

 

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