the morning after

It is the morning after Christmas and I am a slug.  A bloated pathetic bug of a slug full of cream cheese and chocolate. The cowboy asks if I would like to go out for breakfast and I stifle a belch. I blearily reply to the negative and remark that I won't be eating for awhile.

Yesterday was Christmas and the family comes together. My daughter and sisters-in-law outdid themselves in their culinary contributions and I was not too shabby myself.  My brother walked by with a loaded plate commenting, "good spread, sis," cracker crumbs in his beard. And it was. We could have served several high school football teams with what was on my table.

 The busyness of the holiday schedule played havoc with my physical routine and here I am loathe to exercise, but exercise I must.  Dave trundles himself off to the Club to lift weights and talk to young things in spandex.  I am faced with a 55-minute DVD featuring an overly toned cranky woman with too many teeth yelling at me to feel the burn.  Feel this, sweetie, followed by a rigorously pumping arm.

Could the Almighty have allowed me another 6 or 7 inches in height? Would that have seriously jeopardized the human scheme of things as we know it?  Maybe not a good idea. I would have looked out of place in my family as we resemble a group of miniature German gnomes with bulbous noses. It would have set the gossips twittering. Instead I have a short scrunched-up torso with no waistline and I have saved a fortune in belts as a result. If I possessed a tall, lithe figure it would provide me with an increased metabolism and I could make more trips to the buffet table. Alas, this is not the case and I am doomed to a lifetime of shortening every new pair of pants. At least I don't need to worry  my stiletto pumps will make me taller than my date.