But I haven’t seen jeans since 2012. And I could barely get them pulled up to my knees. “What in the world?” I said, bewildered by my predicament.
“Seriously?” my reflection hee-hawed. “You have no idea why you can’t get one big fat butt cheek in those jeans?”
“Shut up,” I hissed. “I just need to stretch them a little bit.”
I tossed a bath towel over the mirror so she would shut up.
Then I bunny-hopped around the bedroom, pulling on the jeans until they miraculously stretched to my waist … (but dang, I then had to admit that I no longer have a waist).
As I walked stiffly toward the kitchen, I was a dead ringer for Dorothy’s buddy, the Tin Man.
“If I wear these, I won’t be able to sit or bend,” I muttered as I blotted my sweaty red face. “And it will also be impossible to go to the bathroom. I won’t be able to get them down fast enough to avoid peeing my pants. Unless the bathroom is large enough for some serious bunny-hopping, I won’t be able to get them back on, either.”
I bit my lip, thinking. “Just to be on the safe side, I should make sure that I’m dehydrated before I even attempt to wear these.”
Sucking in my breath, I forced myself to look again at my reflection.
“Holy cow,” I muttered. “My butt fell another 4 inches. It almost reaches the bend of my knees. What happens if it actually drops that low? Can I walk with my butt cheeks dripping into the bend of my knees?”
Again, I nervously blotted my face. “I can’t take this stress.”
Just to make sure my eyes weren’t lying to me, I glanced at the side view once more.
And that’s when the crazy began to congregate in the front of my cerebellum.
Of course, I already knew about Rotunda. Lord knows, she is impossible to miss.
When I was 50 she set up housekeeping an inch below my bellybutton. She continues to shove her way into everything I do. For example, the moment I sit down, there she is. That’s why I named her. It was pretty obvious that she had no intention of leaving.
But until that moment I had no idea that Rotunda invited every other fat cell she knew to join her at my address.
“I look at least seven months pregnant!” I yelled at the assortment of Twinkies and donuts on the kitchen counter.
Somehow, I had turned into a walking apple.
“Oh my gosh, I feel faint,” I said in a shaky voice. “My front side is now as wide and unappealing as my back side. I should shop in maternity wear!”
When I swallowed some of the hysteria enough to think, I saw three choices. One, wear the jeans, understanding that I could only take in a full breath when I felt dizzy. Two, toss the stressful jeans aside and freeze to death in leggings. Or three, purchase jeans with an elastic waist band.
The first couple of choices were anything but pleasant. But the third choice made me gag.
“No way!” I shuddered. “Rotunda, I refuse to give in to you!”
“You don’t frighten me,” Rotunda said with a yawn. “Don’t forget, I’m a witness to every single time you grab the gravy boat instead of the salad bowl.”