Mary Panza

You thought I was going to talk about my weekend. No. The title is about a decision I made a few years ago. I was around 41, trying one diet after another and working out with a trainer that made dislocating my shoulder a monthly occurrence. I was sad in my relationship and as a mother. I felt that if I could just make myself more appealing he would want me. It had to be me, right? I never really lost the baby weight and my tits are low hangers. Why would anyone want me? I have failed at everything. I can’t even please the father of my baby. What should I do?

I was looking in the mirror and made a decision. Follow my logic. Working out? SUCKS! I don’t care what you are into. Zumba? Out of the fucking question. I don’t dance, drunk or sober. Period. Yoga? It makes me angry. I don’t know why. I just get pissed off doing it. And ANYTHING with the PX90 guys face or voice makes me want to choke him. He is an arrogant prick and I’d rather stay fat than bring that workout demon in my home. I have been on a diet since I was 11. The ONLY thing that ever worked for me was mono at age 13. Best summer of my life. It was total sensory deprivation with the occasional trip to the bathroom or glass of orange juice. I fell asleep in June and woke up in August, 30lbs thinner with enough time to get a tan. Heaven. I would have planned my life better if I had known I peaked at 13. So anyway, I’m 41, on the verge of a mental break down and starved for love, attention and carbs. I stopped for a second looking at my body and caught a glimpse of my face. The answer was as clear as my face. The answer was my face. I chose my face.

I had given up the trainer and put my money where my mouth is, all pun intended. I began investing in my face. It was a good call. I have had a string of great estheticians. I have been plucked, waxed and masked, all in a good way. My current esthetician I will call Sunshine Sparkle Butt. She is someone I have known for years in various professions. She pops, squeezes and pumices me to perfection. Thanks to her I have amazing skin. She is a great girl and on my most recent appointment she looked me in the eye and said, “Kid, I have two words for you, PAJAMA JEANS!” She had drunk the As Seen On TV kool aid and bought a pair. Did I mention she is gorgeous? Oh, she is. She is late 50’s, petite, blond hair with just enough “medical enhancements” and Botox to keep her looking younger than me. She was singing the praises of working in these, hmmm, pants I guess you would call them. She is a wonderful and rare example of someone that really didn’t have to make the ass or face decision. I told her it would be a cold day in hell that my fat ass would be in them. I don’t endorse PAJAMA JEANS either. Choosing sweatpants or jeans is another easy choice. Just like choosing my face over my ass. It was a no brainer really. As far as comfort for your ass goes, just buy yoga pants. They do the lying for you.

 

Photo credit: Dan Wilcox