This week a number appeared on my bathroom scale that I have never seen before in reference to my own body, a number more commonly associated with small ponies, kitchen appliances, and Crimson Tide linemen. My first reaction was to turn around and smack the unknown person who must be standing right behind me on the scale with rocks in his pockets to weigh us down. Unfortunately, I didn’t see a soul in that bathroom but me. That joker with rocks was quick.
It was time for me to face the horrid, unflattering truth: The season for hopeful thinking, stretchy fabric, and new, distracting lipstick has passed. Drastic action is called for before double-digit clothing sizes are my new norm, so . . . I decided to give up sweet tea. Yeah. You read that correctly. I’d rather give up a kidney. That would be easier.
As a Southern woman, this is personal sacrifice on an epic scale—like removing rice from the diet of anyone on the Pacific Rim. I assume this offering to the gods will rectify the previously mentioned scale issue. I certainly don’t plan to toy with my life-sustaining supply of cheese straws, petits fours, or drinks with tiny umbrellas in them. I hope this is an end to the matter. If not, you’re going to hear about it, and so are readers all around the country. In my experience, Southern women rarely suffer alone.