The D-Word

The D-Word. Lord, how I hate the d-word. I should just go ahead and explain to the d-illiterate that the d-word is, in fact, diet. I hate a lot of things. Bad customer service, medical doctors, burnt coffee, and stinking, dirt-sucking, scuzbutton literary agents who say they're going to sell your book and you don't hear from them for a year. Mostly I hate the d-word. I wish I could say that I'm not obsessed with my weight. Except there's the little problem that I think about it on a daily basis, maybe an hourly basis while I'm awake. Mostly I'm concerned with my health. Oh, and I'd like to fit into those size fourteen blue jeans. And if I hear one more itty-bitty, perky-titted, twentysomething mommy at the park talk about her need to lose those last, irritating three pounds that are plaguing her like locusts in biblical Egypt, well, I think I'll finally succumb to my need to drop kick her 95 pounds into the sandbox. Then I'll explain it to my daughter after my husband bails me out of jail. I am certain, after all, that drop kicking a soccer mommy in size four jeans is probably illegal. I could hope for a fat judge.