I am Marsupial

If any of you missed me, I have been busy dieting for the past few months.  I do nothing but think about food and invent ways to eat satisfying amounts of vegetables without needing a slow drip of “Beano”.

The first 3 days of any diet should include an exile from your family.  The “Carb Detox” process involves obscenities, self-mutilation and thrashing.  It also involves noise.  While at work, my stomach growled like an in-sink-erator.  It was its own vicious, moaning entity that echoed and bounced off all surfaces of the room.  People raised their heads and looked around like deer who had just heard a twig snap in the wood. 

Following the dark, first days, however, I fell into step.  What rose from the ashes and Kleenexes, wet with the tears I shed mourning my beloved pizza, was a surprising and maddening high self-esteem.  This lasted approximately 2 months until recently--“The Day I became a Marsupial.”

My previously “pillowy” lower abdomen, rather suddenly, has become an empty sack, held up on both sides like a hammock.  Any skin-elasticity I previously owned has left the building.  To sooth myself, I’ve been thinking up ways I can either disguise or USE this pouch for the greater good.  Sheltering baby animals, “kangaroo-like” was out of the question without a mutual agreement regarding the use of claws and “nature calls.” 

I could donate the extra skin and fat cells to the needy.  The idea of being a “Flesh Farmer” amused me.

I can also use this pouch as a musical instrument, as became evident while playing a rousing game of “Guestures” which required me to jump.  The flap hit the top of my thighs and made a “THWACK” sound.  Again, the other players, like my co-workers, became a deer herd.  If they’d had them, their white tails would have become erect, alerted to a mysterious, nay, alien noise.

“What the HELL was that?” my husband, Fred, asked.

Dieting can also be scary.  I went to the clinic last week, certain I had tumors.  I pointed to either side of my torso and said, “What are these?” 

“Hip Bones,”

Oh.

But it hasn’t been all bad.  Finding old clothes in my closet that fit now is kind of a high, even though I would never wear them outside of my home.  47-year-old women in leopard print anything is just sad.  I’m not quite into my 80’s androgynous wardrobe yet, but when I get there, I’ll be sure to post a picture. 

I can just imagine the caption.

“Michael Jackson’s white sister, wearing his red leather jacket and glove, finds place for “Bubbles” the monkey inside her own flesh pouch.”