Pumped Up

You know what I hate? That muscle weighs more than fat. I've packed on 10 pounds in the past few weeks. I thought it was due to overeating, but everyone I mention it to reminds me that MUSCLE WEIGHS MORE THAN FAT. I keep on forgetting that. Duh! So, now I can breathe a sigh of relief. I'm not getting fat; I'm getting buff. In fact, I've gained a whopping 40 pounds of muscle since I first met my husband. I never really thought about it, but I guess I'm really ripped. The other day, I could swear that I saw sheets of cellulite rippling across the back of my thighs, but that must have just been bulging muscle! Phew. Good thing.

What is that muscle called that is lining your inner thighs? The one that cuts off all circulation to the crotch because it's so massive? Whatever it's called, mine is HUGE. I haven't had a dry pair of panties in YEARS!

I'm also gifted with extremely robust muscles about my mid-section. These particular tendons are soooo hardy that they've dangerously launched quite a few buttons from my pants across crowded rooms! Protect your eyeballs, people!

I can't believe I didn't figure this out sooner. Here I was thinking I was getting fat. Stupid me. I mean, come on, do you have any idea how heavy that Marie Callender's pie I finished off last night was? I'm not joking -- there was AT LEAST a pound of banana cream filling in that thing. I had to literally use two hands to get it out of the fridge. What's my point? Muscle building...duh. I seriously doubt some of my more frail and... ahem... weak friends could even lift that thing. No offense. There's nothing wrong with being wimpy; it's just not for me.