Help a Gibbled Gal Out

Woe is me.

While I'm still mourning the fact that I was not born a bazillionaire heiress able to spend my time frolicking carelessly on some tropical beach, (and yes, I realize I've had thirty odd years to come to terms with this small injustice but what can I say? I'm stubborn,) but as of late I have a new injustice to mourn and curse about.

My once young and nubile body has become a traitor, deserting me and leaving me trapped inside an aging, wrinkling and ever expanding carcass.

Thy body is a temple.


A temple dedicated to snap, crackling and popping at every damn opportunity. Especially after four days of playing in the dirt and planting my flower beds and vegetable garden.

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I've done everything I could think of to pamper my biomachinery. I rest it by taking long naps, I avoid strenuous exertion at all costs and I frequently lubricate with fine wine.

Still, my body rebels. Let it be known if it continues at this pace, I will be forced to stop spoiling it with treats such as mint chocolate icecream and nachos ladened with extra cheese and guacamole.

Won't my body be sorry then for all the grief it is giving me now?

It's either that or I'll be forced to start going back to the gym. Then nobody will be happy.

So I'm holed up inside, trying to avoid the mountain of laundry that threatens to swallow me hole, while the dust bunnies try and gnaw at my ankles every time I lower my legs off the couch.

I figure if I stay still long enough I can trick my back into thinking it is once again the limber superstar of it's glory days; days when I could garden endlessly and still have the stamina and flexibility to put my ankles behind my ears and do backflips in the bedroom.

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Meanwhile, I'm bored. Not bored enough to tackle the house cleaning (hellooo! I'm injured. Not lazy. Heh.) and certainly not bored enough to dig out the pile of unpaid bills and tackle my finances.

Just bored enough to surf the net, channel surf and moan to the assortment of telemarketers about the vagaries of growing old and why no tomato plant is worth a week of back pain.

(Telemarketers just love to listen to your list of complaints of bodily ailments. Almost as much as they like to hear about how your husband demands sex more often than a teenager asks for money and how your dainty hooohaaa parts are used and abused after an entire week of trying to be a good wife.)

Hmmm. Maybe that is why my back is sore.

Snort. Who am I kidding? That would imply I actually put some effort into any mattress dancing partook in our bedroom instead of just laying there, daydreaming about Clive Owen and asking Boo if he was done yet.

Heh. Yeh. I'm a real romantic.

So I'm doing something I've never done before. Mostly because I always feared no one would participate and I would be publicly shamed and embarrassed and forced into hiding in my pantry while the entire blogosphere snickered at my audacity and stupidity for thinking anyone would even care.

I'm opening myself up to all of you. Spreading myself wide for you all to know.

Wow. Apparently, I've spent too much time in the bedroom.

Gotta question? Wanna know something about me? Ask away. I'll answer. I'm not setting any boundaries as I'm a pretty open gal. Just don't ask what my husband's last name is or what my pin number is.

I don't remember. Wink, wink.

But to those who want to know what my favorite position in the boudoir is, I'll just cut you off at the pass and just tell you know it is any that require the least amount of effort on my part.

After all, my body is a temple.


***Help me out here people. I'm flat on my back and bored to tears. I may start randomly prank calling my siblings people at this rate.***