Three things to do with your mombod this summer

 

 

Are you worried about summer arriving because you haven’t performed the exercise necessary for society to let you wear a bikini, monokini, tankini, military-grade tank, parade-size, culturally inappropriate sombrero that only shows your stomach so you can draw a lipstick mouth around your belly button?  Has your body held onto the evidence that you have birthed children? Have you had too many helpings at the 7-11 nacho cheese dispenser, even though they can’t blame you for that, there were no signs. 

 

Do you have a mombod or identify as a mombod owner? As a mombod inhabitant for years before I even had children, here are three things you can do with your mombod.

 

1. Wear something awesome.  Wear all the caftans you own at once. Steal one of those rainbow parachutes that kids lift into the air and say, “Sorry children, but mama’s wearing this today.” Wear nothing.  Tattoo your body with intricate symbols or a blank grid of the cable TV schedule so you can just fill in when the Real Housewives marathon will air.  That’s helpful. 

 

2. Shed your mombod like an exoskeleton and then chew off the head of your partner, overconfident Zumba instructor, or ex-boyfriend who told you one time to lose some weight and you were too young and insecure to hold your hand to his mouth and yell, “THAT’S NOT OKAY!”  If you have free time, find his LinkedIn profile and endorse him for “only wanting the Magic the Gathering cards in the breakup even though the collection, like his existence, were too weak to do any real damage.”  Then endorse yourself for “inflicting sick burns”! 

 

3. Walk into the best restaurant in town and march right up to the host. When asked, “Will the rest of your party be arriving soon,” answer loud enough for everyone to hear: “I am my own party. I don’t need anyone else.” Your voice will breeze through like a strong wind, catching everyone’s attention, including the jaded couple fighting for no reason—probably about neither can remember, just that it hurt at the time and no one apologized, the bridal party with the one bridesmaid who is pissed that the maid of honor choose this exact restaurant even though she explicitly stammered, “You know my ex works there!” and the high-class couple who brought their young daughter with them despite it being a place with a champagne list that costs more than a year at college.  While her parents complain that all the vacation spots on the coast have become “too touristy,” her eyes will search through the room until she spots you. The little girl will remember your tone, secretly watching you sway past these tables of regret and when she is old enough to be here by herself, she will repeat what you say to the waiter while smiling and tapping the rim, “I don’t want to see the bottom of this glass.”

Here’s to a great summer! 

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