I blame the drive-thru hamburger or the coffee shop with the
creamy drinks.
I’ve been misled by the Mexican food restaurant with the bottomless
bowls of chips and salsa and the to-die-for enchiladas. I have been two-timed
by an egg and bacon taco and hoodwinked by a side of hotcakes.
It’s their fault my belts won’t buckle
and my jackets won’t zip. I blame them for my shortness of breath and
my aching back.
I know I am not alone, so I say we sue those who have made us
this way: they force me to eat that taco (or two) for breakfast; they lure me with their double lattes
topped with whipped cream; they snare
me with their Number One specials, and they
sing their siren songs with their “Hot and Ready” pizzas and drive through
dinners that come complete with desserts.
After all, it is my Christian duty to clean my plate, and the
next day as I struggle with my stretch pants or drag my dress over my derrière, instead of loving myself
enough to take responsibility for my own health, I . . . blame the dryer.
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