Are You There God? It's Me Margi

Ah, the book club of our youth (more like pre-teen angst) anchored by our fearless leader Judy Blume. Thank you for addressing our changing bodies in a way we could deal with (I prayed for illness the day of the "sex talk" at school). Alas, here I sit at the age of 36, three kids, and still have trouble getting my head wrapped around what's going on with this bod of mine. With no Judy Blume book geared towards mid life post partum moms, I'll take my questions straight to the big guy. Here are my most pressing:

WHAT THE #$@!& IS GOING ON??? Allow me to follow that up with, ARE YOU SERIOUS??? With each passing year I am asked to do more and more but yet my metabolism retired at the age of 30 and may have died at age 35. Don't go telling me to work out, because I do. Six days a week for over 4 years Mister. I would say I'm working my ass off but the reflection in the mirror and my jeans beg to differ. So to net it out, I'm just working. I look at pizza and I gain a pound. If I actually eat it - 5. Don't get me started on the holidays. Did you really mean for us to eat for a straight month to celebrate your son's birthday? However, I must say thank you for Flag Day. Maybe the only non stuff-your-face holiday. I would include Groundhog Day in this, but the little bugger almost always sees his shadow predicting 6 more weeks of winter, causing instant depression and into the pantry I go. I realize emotional eating is not your problem. However, I would have appreciated a metabolism that could handle it, not the early retirement package.

Moving on to body type. I would like to confirm my hypothesis that genetic code is really your lottery. Hitting the jackpot is almost statistically impossible. The
.0001% who have are Victoria Secret models. The rest of us settle for having one or two of the numbers and make do with what we have. We look enviously at the jackpot winners, but know there is not a damn thing we can do about it.

The "Power Ball" of this hypothetical lottery has got to be the boobs. I have had more conversations with my girlfriends about this body part than any other. Please tell us how the boobs are dealt out. Is it a rock, paper, scissors situation? Rock for big ones. Paper for flat ones. Scissors, you give out whatever you feel like because you know a third of us will contemplate going under the knife anyway? Speaking of the fake variety, those of you who have them...rock on. They are far cuter than the real deal. Yes, you are hearing the voice of experience here. Speaking as a "C or above" (no one gets my vitals) they're really not that great. Newsflash, they're made of fat tissue and don't look cute in sundresses. One last questions regarding "the girls" (my nickname of choice by the way). Please explain to me why post pregnancy those of us of the "petite variety" shrink to mosquito bites and those of us who have the "grade A larges" jet on up to "jumbos?" I will sum this up for you in two words. Have mercy.

Now I realize that sassing God is never recommended, so allow me to say after all of the sass, I am grateful for this healthy bod that has served me quite well physically and emotionally these past 36+ years. For those who have not been so fortunate, I pray for you and have faith that God hears that first and ignores my nonsense.

And that wraps up this installment. I'm heading to spin class and will then exercise every shred of will power I have not to dive head first into the Easter Candy. I'm signing off to play with my kids for the rest of the weekend. Be well and appreciate what you have!