I Lost Everything in the Post-Natal Depression by Erma Bombeck Page A
Authors: Erma Bombeck
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and popped it into my mouth and smiled my fat little smile. Money may make you thin, but you cannot buy ecstasy.
THREE SIZES FITS ALL
I have always admired women who can wear a one-size swimsuit. That is, either a size 12, a 14, or a 16. I wear all three sizes at the same time.
In the modern-day vernacular, I can’t seem to get it all together. My friends tell me exercise is the secret. It’s not how much weight you carry, it is how it is packaged and distributed.
I stood in front of the mirror the other morning and assessed myself. Imagine if you will the state of Texas. I look terrific at Amarillo, but by the time I hit Dallas and Fort Worth, I begin to blouse, and don’t really thin out again until Corpus Christi. (But after Houston, who hangs on to see Corpus Christi?)
I’ve exercised. I really have. Once I signed up for a course at the neighborhood YWCA. The classes were held in a church and because of the popularity of the class, we were put in the church proper. One afternoon the minister visited and paused long enough to see me in a pair of pedal pushers trying to touch my nose to my bent knee which was resting on a pew and said, “You are desecrating the altar.” I transferred to cake-decorating class and licked my way to six additional pounds.
For a while I used to eat my dessert at breakfast while watching a Swedish girl on television. She held me spellbound by winding her leg around her neck. I watched and listened to her for over a year and one day I wheezed, strained and gasped and finally got one of my ankles hooked over the other. I quit before I really hurt myself.
The idea of going to a spa really intrigued me. I thought how great it would be to splash around in the water and steam your pores and ride a bicycle to nowhere, but going to a spa is like having a cleaning lady. You can’t go to a spa looking like you need to go to a spa any more than you can have a cleaning woman walk into a house that needs cleaning. Somehow, I just couldn’t get myself in shape for a towel.
For the last year, I have watched my husband faithfully execute his Air Force exercises (which could account for the decline in enlistments). If there is anything in this world more boring than a man who exercises regularly, I have not met it.
“You should join me,” he keeps insisting. “A few pushups; a little jogging. It’s good for the old body.”
“Then why aren’t your knees straight when you bend over to touch your toes?”
“I suppose you could do it better?”
“Sure, by letting my fingernails grow fourteen inches.”
He’s not fooling around with some amateur.
WRINKLE CITY
All I said was my face was beginning to look more like John Wayne’s every day of my life.
Then my neighbor said she had this book on body and facial exercises that you can do while you do your housework.
And the next thing you know, I got a box of homemade cookies from my bread man’s wife. I don’t understand it.
I guess it started the first day I began to exercise. I was on the phone, talking to my neighbor with my knees partially bent, my legs apart and as I talked, I slapped my thighs together. When the bread man walked by the window, I waved. He waved feebly, put a package of brown ’n serve rolls on the milk box and left.
Later that week in front of the picture window, I rolled my head slowly five times from left to right, then five times right to left. In between I would shake my head from side to side going faster and faster until everything was a blur. I thought I saw my bread man running toward his truck.
For my neckline, I was instructed to stick my tongue out as far as I could and try to curl the tip. As I did so, I noticed my bread man looking back at me with both his fingers in his ears and his tongue extended. He looked ridiculous.
The following week I worked on my chin, by throwing my head back and biting into an imaginary apple with my lower lip protruding. I could really feel the chin and neck muscles
THREE SIZES FITS ALL
I have always admired women who can wear a one-size swimsuit. That is, either a size 12, a 14, or a 16. I wear all three sizes at the same time.
In the modern-day vernacular, I can’t seem to get it all together. My friends tell me exercise is the secret. It’s not how much weight you carry, it is how it is packaged and distributed.
I stood in front of the mirror the other morning and assessed myself. Imagine if you will the state of Texas. I look terrific at Amarillo, but by the time I hit Dallas and Fort Worth, I begin to blouse, and don’t really thin out again until Corpus Christi. (But after Houston, who hangs on to see Corpus Christi?)
I’ve exercised. I really have. Once I signed up for a course at the neighborhood YWCA. The classes were held in a church and because of the popularity of the class, we were put in the church proper. One afternoon the minister visited and paused long enough to see me in a pair of pedal pushers trying to touch my nose to my bent knee which was resting on a pew and said, “You are desecrating the altar.” I transferred to cake-decorating class and licked my way to six additional pounds.
For a while I used to eat my dessert at breakfast while watching a Swedish girl on television. She held me spellbound by winding her leg around her neck. I watched and listened to her for over a year and one day I wheezed, strained and gasped and finally got one of my ankles hooked over the other. I quit before I really hurt myself.
The idea of going to a spa really intrigued me. I thought how great it would be to splash around in the water and steam your pores and ride a bicycle to nowhere, but going to a spa is like having a cleaning lady. You can’t go to a spa looking like you need to go to a spa any more than you can have a cleaning woman walk into a house that needs cleaning. Somehow, I just couldn’t get myself in shape for a towel.
For the last year, I have watched my husband faithfully execute his Air Force exercises (which could account for the decline in enlistments). If there is anything in this world more boring than a man who exercises regularly, I have not met it.
“You should join me,” he keeps insisting. “A few pushups; a little jogging. It’s good for the old body.”
“Then why aren’t your knees straight when you bend over to touch your toes?”
“I suppose you could do it better?”
“Sure, by letting my fingernails grow fourteen inches.”
He’s not fooling around with some amateur.
WRINKLE CITY
All I said was my face was beginning to look more like John Wayne’s every day of my life.
Then my neighbor said she had this book on body and facial exercises that you can do while you do your housework.
And the next thing you know, I got a box of homemade cookies from my bread man’s wife. I don’t understand it.
I guess it started the first day I began to exercise. I was on the phone, talking to my neighbor with my knees partially bent, my legs apart and as I talked, I slapped my thighs together. When the bread man walked by the window, I waved. He waved feebly, put a package of brown ’n serve rolls on the milk box and left.
Later that week in front of the picture window, I rolled my head slowly five times from left to right, then five times right to left. In between I would shake my head from side to side going faster and faster until everything was a blur. I thought I saw my bread man running toward his truck.
For my neckline, I was instructed to stick my tongue out as far as I could and try to curl the tip. As I did so, I noticed my bread man looking back at me with both his fingers in his ears and his tongue extended. He looked ridiculous.
The following week I worked on my chin, by throwing my head back and biting into an imaginary apple with my lower lip protruding. I could really feel the chin and neck muscles
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