Fabulosity

So, as you know, I am not your typical Orange County Housewife, thank God. I'm not sure I could live with myself. Despite what people are led to believe via the media, those women are NOT representative of the REAL Orange County. I'm offended that they even use the words "Real Orange County Housewives". We're not wealthy (we live paycheck to paycheck and right now, I'm the only one getting a paycheck), we don't live at "The Beach", I don't shop at "The Mall" (I'm a Target/Wal-Mart Girl, thank you very much), my kids aren't spoiled (they actually WORK while they're in school), I haven't had any work done (I earned these wrinkles, dammit), I don't hide the fact that I'm forty...something, I have an IQ that's higher than the speed limit , I drive a 12 year old mini-van, and most importantly, I'm not a size 2. Middle-aged Rednecks, bikers and lesbians LOVE ME and think I'm hot. I'm friggin fabulous!

I have struggled through one weight-loss plan after another and still come back to that place in my head where I realize that food is my drug of choice. It's my comfort. And man, have I needed comforting this last year! So, I'm fluffy and fabulous. Take me or leave me. That's pretty much the lie I've told myself. It hurts like hell to be invisible. Because here, in the OC, if you're fat, you don't exist. It is what it is. Babylon; home of plastic people with shallow lives.

Yes, I'm still fabulous. Yes, I'm still fluffy. But there's 9.6 pounds less of my fluffiness and I've put those 9.6 pounds over into my fabulousness. Hopefully, by the time I go celebrate Auburn Pisces' natal anniversary, I'll be 20 pounds more fabulous. That will make running naked on the beach with Pony a little less intimidating. Okay maybe not. :o)