Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Was rifling through my beloved Vogue yesterday after a long and crunchy day at the beach where I was VERY naughty and crisped up like bacon. Read the article about inflammation, which posited that said inflammation was the cause of all our ills. The writer wrote about her hip, bleeding gums, and swollen eye. I HAD ALL THOSE! PLUS: An inability to lose weight, chronic neck pain and visible wrinkles. I immediately squeaked, "That's me!"
For the record, I have a terrible reputation for hypochondria, at least where T is concerned. On the AIDS ride I got stung by a bee for the first time in my life, T took me to the med tent, and as the EMT asked me questions like, "Are you short of breath?" and "Is your throat swelling?" I panicked and was convinced I was going to Anna Chumlsky right there. T nearly fell over laughing and I have never recovered from the indignity.
Anyhow, the whole inflammation idea is that somehow your cells are over compensating for injuries by rushing to the scene and throwing a comfy chair at a space that only calls for a pillow. Hence the swelling.
Now that I write it out, it's obvious to me that inflammation is just another word for aging. And while it sucks, there is really nothing I can do about it.
I would like to de-inflate my tummy. I did an "art" shoot. (You know, "ART" shoot?) where a plastic surgeon took a magic marker to my body and outlined what he would do to fix me. This was post-baby. I don't know, I must be a masochist. He got to my belly, and said, "The only thing that will fix this is a tummy tuck." I've been trying to prove the bastard wrong for three years. Damn it he may be right. And there is no way I can afford a tummy tuck. I bought a one piece bathing suit, and am looking into girdles. The fat tummy is just so icky, and matronly. Yuck.
I had better just become friend to my inflamed self. Or take up Belly-dancing again.

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