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.