I’m convinced that back fat is something that evil witches cooked up to torture unsuspecting people all over the world. I envision them with their warts and rotten teeth standing over a big, black cauldron cackling and stirring bubbling, boiling pots of hot fat. 
Then they hop on their brooms, in the still of the night, and deliver the back fat to innocent people like a demented Santa. I don’t know why they chose to deliver their evil-ness to me. It’s not like I was nice and left milk and cookies out on the counter. Ok fine. I ate them first. Don’t judge me.
Anyway, I consider myself “fluffy”. Pleasantly plump, if you will. No matter what I do, I’ve never been “skinny”. Not even after doing Crossfit hardcore for 3 years. I just got to a good size for me. I was so strong and my endurance was better than ever. But skinny I was not. And I was ok with that. Because I felt good in my skin.
But since having my son, the back fat has gotten out of control! It’s taking over. It’s so firmly in place that I need to start collecting rent from it.
The worst part is that I am struggling to find the motivation to not mindlessly eat all the cookies and do more exercise than folding clothes. The back fat is mocking me and I still can’t make myself get off the couch. Like seriously. I hear it making a reservation at the fat hotel for an extended stay.
Sigh.
I blame global warming. Or taxes. Yeah. That’s it. Taxes and global warming are the causes of my serious lack of motivation. But I will get it together. I vow that after the holidays, I WILL start eating healthy again and exercising.
The oven timer just went off. Cookies, anyone?
Musings of Anna Mickerson 