I'm Goin' To The Chapel And I'm Gonna Get Married

This is turning out to be a very weddingy year.  And since I have had occasion to attend recent weddings and and we just ran into Superman's best man, I have given pause.  I have have given pause to contemplate nuptuals.

Bob and I turned yesterday as the bridal party made their way down the aisle.  Truly we wanted to see the beautiful bride, and she was.  But we were primarily concerned with the flower girl.  Adorned in a cloud of purple, hair swept to the side in a tidy and elegant ballerina bun, our fair princess began her decent down the aisle.  Her duties were not taken lightly.  She did her best to stay with the other flower girl.  Piglet covered the floor ahead and her even fairer white/blond counterpart covered the rear.  Piglet's lashes batted.  They brushed her apple cheeks like butterfly wings.  Her tiny pearly teeth sparkled as she beemed at the attendees.  Upon reaching my seat, she sent out an 'air kiss' which I caught without much effort.  Ah, as far as we were concerned, the wedding was a success and it hadn't even begun.

Soon the vows were being spoken.  And that's when I turned on the water works.  As I struggle through the dark night woods of a cold hard nature that rarely allows me to show feeling in public, I wondered for a moment what other people are thinking when they cry at weddings.  Is everyone truly that hap hap happy for the new couple?  Are some of you weeping with a secret unrequited love?  Are you sure the wedding is a sham for a green card and you weep for the fear of deportation?  WHY are you crying?

I'll tell you why I cry. It happens to be for many reasons depending on the wedding.  This particular time I wept because I listened to the bishop speaking and I was rife with emotion over Superman.  I hope that he feels like I have kept up my end of the bargain in the last 14 years.  (Maimy would like me to add that we were married at the age of 10 for those math wizards out there.)  I cried a little at my sometimes sorry attempt to take our very serious covenant.....seriously.  I cried because when the bishop said that this marriage was for the period of their mortal lives......I felt my mortality.  So, I have to admit, that this time I cried for myself and not for the luminous bride and her sunny groom.

Apart from this time, I have cried for a variety of reasons.  I have shed a tear with a full heart because the bride and groom FINALLY found each other and I just knew they were destined for happiness after much unhappiness.  Maimy and I  blubbered a bucket at one wedding when we were certain that the groom was one of Satan's minion and we feared for the bride's future.  I've given a good bewailing over a bride's tender proclaimations and then snorted at the groom's blundering answer.  In a rush of judgement, Maimy and I showered a tissue during a second marriage when we were sad for the child whose family had broken up. 

As Maimy tends to be excessively self-centered, I would tend to say that most of our lamenting has had to do more with ourselves than with the bride and groom at that exact time.  We drum up thoughts of our own wedding day.  We become emotionally wrought over the profoundness of the vows and what they mean to us.  Sometimes, much to Maimy's chagrin, I am brow beating myself over my eternal damnation for being a shoddy wife.  So when all of this snivelling occurs at weddings, what is everyone else crying for?

Airing My Dirty Laundry.....

I have resentment toward my laundry......it always looks at me with a smug entitled look that I can't stand....like it deserves to be washed instead of lying there in piles.
I don't mind a good sort every now and again.....putting clothes in piles of color is a bit fulfilling.  I admit that is a little on the OCD side.
I can even put it in the washer and add all of the fantasticly scented detergent.  Let's be honest.  I buy for scent.
But then it comes to taking it out of the washer and I find myself staring off into space, distracted by other more interesting things.  I could be reading or sleeping or eating or shaving my legs or staring at the wall.  I don't like the work that comes along with drying the clothes.  First you have to decide if you are going to put each piece of clothing into the dryer.  I hang lots of items.....er well, I should hang lots of items.  Mostly I drape many items because Maimy is too lazy to go to each bedroom and collect hangers.  Then, if I am really on a laundry roll, I run out of room.  This dilema will not cause Maimy or I to break down and get hangers.  It's just too unpleasant and frankly taxing on the system to troll the closets for hangers, plus my ADD will kick in and I will get distracted by some other chores rolling their eyes and waiting for a turn.
May I complain here about taking the clothes out of the dryer?  How many times is it legal to 'fluff' the clothes because you forgot they were there?  If my clothes were my children.......well I won't go there.....'neglect' would the the optimum word here.  DCFS would get a report that I left my little darlings in a car with the windows up.
Let's say I finally get to the stuck up, self righteous clothes that made it through the dry cycles.  And they are smug, let me tell you.  Now they feel like they deserve to be put away, and promptly. 
I like to make them wait a little.  Take them down a notch or two.  So I sling them over the upstairs railing....sorted by person of ownership of course.  And just because I like to show them whose boss.....I may let them stay there for more than a day....sometimes with hangers inserted into their little necks.  That's right.....I tease them......and then let 'em sweat it out.
I know you'll be surprised here, but Maimy hates to hang the clothes in the closet.  She gets a little anxiety ridden.  I like to color code my closets.  That is perfectly normal and acceptable behavior.  If you haven't tried it, I highly suggest you do.  But if you start to run out of hangers or the clothes start to press against each other in a snug, personal space invading sort of manner......well, I breath a little more heavy and I start to feel unsettled.  It's just too much work for clothes with an attitude.  And once it's done, it will be no time at all before they are back in the laundry room.......right where they started, with a little "I told you so," smirk pasted all over their dirty little faces.

The Second Time Around

So that's about all I remember from the second baby.  Superman hid behind a hunting magazine for a few hours and pretended I wasn't white knuckling it 4 feet away.

I've never claimed to have a handle on my emotions.  When I came to the realization that I may have to deliver the second child....I bluntly told Dr. D that I would not return after the 36th week of gestation unless I was knocked out cold and unawares.  Living up to my end of the bargain, I refused to make further appointments or discuss the possibility of giving birth. 
Duty had called loud and long.  Superman was at the 2002 Olympics keeping us safe from terrorists.  This aloneness really helped me compartmentalize...I found it quite easy to pretend that I was not 9 months pregnant. 
Dr. D, realizing that I truthfully intended to never return, called in a little treat to the pharmacy.  He felt that if he could, in fact, render me unconscious, someone could perhaps drag me to the hospital.  Superman returned from his post in time to pick up the drugs just as the contractions began.  Knowing that I would put up a struggle if he suggested that medical attention may be imminent....he brought home a little bottle of sleepy dust.
Anxiety has long been a companion of mine.  I am curious ....... does anyone else have that thing where the fear of what is to come in the morning stops you from going to sleep because the dreaded event will come faster?  Well that is about where we were sitting.  I knew the contractions were leading somewhere.  I tried to play it down, but I am sure that trying to lock myself in the bathroom piqued Superman's keen senses. Night was coming on and he knew that he was going to have to get me to the hospital by morning.  If he could just get me to eat the little doggy treat stuffed with Ambien.......home free.  I wasn't giving up without a fight.  On one hand being drugged and comatose would really aleviate the intense sense of doom...but the sooner you go nighty night, the sooner you are propped up on a table naked.  Not in the good sense....where you are dancing to boom chicka bow wow and making cash hand over fist, but the bad sense where there are blood and guts falling out of your bottom.  Superman calmly and lovingly tried to get me to partake of fruit.  Nu uh.  He became testy.  At one point he held me down.  Feeling backed into a corner I took the little pill and put it in my ear.  It pains me to admit that childish act, but you really have to understand how much I hate every part of labor and delivery........I hate it right up to the point where you are one year post partum.  You would think a man trained to detect deceit would have picked up on this......it took some time.  Finally when I didn't pass out cold, he became suspicious.  After grilling me under a 100 watt light bulb in a dark room and smashing my fingers in the desk drawer, I copped to the fact that the drugs were in my ear.  The only thing I remember after that was everything taking on a blue cast and not being able to use my legs.  I became cognizant at the hospital when the nurse in her best cheerleader voice chirped, 'Oh my heck.....are you so excited to have a baby today?"  I immediatley burst into tears and said, "NO!"  She hooked me up to an IV anyway. 
Superman, not learning his lesson the previous time, lent me his fingers to grasp while the anesthetist used a screwdriver to give me an epidural.  Once he regained the use of his bloody hand, he picked up a hunting magazine and didn't speak to me again until it was baby birthin' time. He requested more ringers be hung on the IV pole in order to block his view.  He didn't understand yet that only one of us could be scared witless...and it was my turn.  Luckily, my babies have been coached from the pre-existance and they are able to birth themselves, as I am useless with fright.  The Farm Boy appeared quick as a blink:)

Mommy, Tell Me A Story........

I hope I don't get sued for that picture.......I'm not claiming I took it.  That is not me, however I have felt like that before.

The nuggets ALWAYS ask for a story.  Usually while I am driving and listening to Nickleback as loud as I can so that I don't have to hear their shrill little voices.  So here's a story they like to hear.  It truly illustrates that I am unfit to bear children.......

Once upon a time I was pregnant with my first baby.  In order to kill the rumors that I was pregnant when I got married......I waited four years to pop out my first piglet.  I had been through college.  I had a great job doing fantastically important things.  Meh, what the heck, the car seats and strollers were so enticing....and the itty bitty clothes.....ugh, it was all so overwhelming...I was sucker into having my own nugget.

I didn't handle being pregnant very well.  Satan's grasp on Reagan from the exorcist looked a lot like...erm well nothing....when it comes to comparing my behavior with hers.  At long last the day of doom was impending.  Dr. D said it would be beneficial if I would consider induction since my little bundle of joy was due two days before Christmas and I had an hour and a half drive to the hospital.  By the end of all of my pregnancies I was like a coyote trapped in a leg vice.  I would have ripped off the arm of anyone that came within range of my teeth.  So, I declined the offer to willingly subject myself to intense pain.  Superman tried his darnedest to change my mind.  He is so sweet......and so niave, at least he was this once.  He sort of cornered me in the Dr. office and made me schedule an induction.  Basically I agreed so as not to cry in front of the office staff.....plus I was really hungry and wanted to go eat.  I knew....oh I knew, that I would never acutally go through with it.

The day I knew I would die (which is how I looked at it) arrived.  Everyone knew I was going to the hospital.  I couldn't take the pressure.  I couldn't handle that everyone knew I was about to deliver a baby.  How could I possibly preform under such duress?  I couldn't.  I cried uncontrollably until I was supposed to leave for the chop shop.  Then I made Superman call and unschedule my induction.  (This is the great thing about being an adult......no one can make you do anything you don't want to!! It's very empowering!)  Then, because everyone called to find out about the baby and instead found out that I had a nervous breakdown...continued to call to give me their opinion/support.  I admit to hiding in the bathroom......in the bathtub.  I threw the phone out and closed the shower curtain.  Yes...I am an adult.  I made Superman play secretary.  I begged him to tell everyone to leave me alone and never, ever speak to me again.  They tried to tell me I couldn't stop labor, but haha they don't know me very well.  My poor mother, in a state of frenzy, tried to lure me out of the bathroom with a cheese burger.  This actually worked.  But I made her leave the house before I unlocked the door, stuck out my hand, and pulled the cheese burger into the bathroom. 

What I was not counting on was that intense anxiety can put you into labor.  Within a very short time I began to feel what may have been contractions.  I pretended they weren't happening because.....well, I wasn't going to give birth after all. Superman in all of his duty bound glory, had gone to work when I pretended that I was not in labor. I made the mistake of picking up the phone during what may have been a contraction.    By some sick twist of fate, Superman's dad called.  I think he could tell I was gritting my teeth.  Sensing that things may not have been as kosher as I said they were, he said he felt like I shouldn't be alone.  Ah, sh*t.  I mean seriously.  This was the worst moment of my life to not be alone.  I so wanted to be alone.  You can really compartmentalize when you are alone, duping yourself into believing nearly anything.  So the dad comes and makes me leave my little haven.  I have one exceedingly painful contraction infront of a person I don't want to be sick infront of.  I could hardly sit on the truck seat.

I am dragged into the in-laws.  I am put on display in front of their children, like a sick animal in the zoo.  For hours we watch horrible medical mishaps and painful medical procedures on the big screen.  The children feed me Pepsi and chocolates as I lie swollen and anxious on the floor.  The contractions have stopped, just like I knew they would.  No labor and delivery for me!  Superman visits.  I try to express through gritted teeth and raised eyebrows that I am dying to go home and be alone.  He leaves me there.  Blah......the hours pass.  I eat more chocolate.  Finally, out of desperation to hide from the beadly little eyes, I hit the ladies room.  When I know that the peeps in the other room are getting nervous about my condition I have to stop inspecting my pores and go back out.  Somewhere between the bathroom and the living room, approximately 5 steps, my mental barrier was over ridden by nature, and I went into full blown labor.  My little sister to this day will say that I made some awful noises and I may have cried.  All I can remember is that those poor children stared at me with gaping eyes as I bit the back of the recliner I had fallen against.  Honestly so did the parents.  They didn't know me very well and I don't think they had any idea what to do.  Finally I had the dad page Superman (The ungodly days of no cell phones.  It was like the dark ages.  How did we even function?).  Didn't work.  Superman was working a canyon road.  When I resorted to biting myself, the dad finally wised up and called dispatch.  That got the cops to roll.  Superman busts in, mouth agape, eyes huge.  We leave the prison from which I felt I would never escape.  We go home.  I had secretly packed a bag for the hospital just in case.....I actually had to have the baby.  He grabs the secret bag once I tell him there is a secret bag.  I lay on the floor by the baby swing, I am sure seemingly like a cow that has been hit by a car and not killed.  I assume that looked bad because I ended up in the partol car speeding out of town.  Big Guy tries to convince me to stop at the local hospital.  No no no! 

I am trying to hold my clothing off of my body so that the pressure of the light cotton on my very tight abdomen, doesn't kill me.  Superman, although great in any bloody situation, cannot handle his own bloody situation.  He will not look at me.  He will not speak to me.  I am pretty sure he didn't touch me.  I beg him not to slow down.  I would rather die in a car wreck than have another second of pain.  Fifty minutes later I am lying across the nurses station screaming.  The heathenous wretch that attends to us thinks I am being a bit extreme when she finds out we are on baby numero uno.  I will not allow her to help me change my clothes.  After my legs fail me, I am dragged to a bed and thrown up with the finesse of a cowboy tossing hay bales.  The nurses evil gargoyle hands prod until they find out ......hmm I think that's a baby head, and ew, golly that was a huge burst of water!  She tells Superman he almost had to deliver his own child.  He smells blood.  He turns white.  He runs from the room. In the confusion I still get the drugs.  Previously I am convinced that the epidural will climb my spine instead of descend, paralyze my diaphragm, and kill me.  I am  now willing to risk it.  At some point in my screaming and thrashing about, someone has put a blood pressure cuff on my arm.  As the numbing drugs begin to take effect, the cuff closes on my arm, cutting off circulation.  I screamed even louder to alert the witchy woman to the fact that the epidural was going up, not down as intended, and I was about to crash.  With a superior smirk on her face, she  pointes out that the cuff was just really tight.  Just for kicks my blood pressure crashed anyway because she didn't give me enough fluid.  All the hubbub didn't take more than a few minutes.  Then nursey recalls that there was a baby trying to dislodge itself from my body.  She, ever so kindly, turns on 18 mega watt lamps, rips off the bedding and tells me not to push. 

Dr. D makes a quick appearance.  He asks if I am ready to have a baby.  I am not.  Nine months was no preparation.  I need to rethink what I am about to do.  Dr. D. doesn't really care, considering it is 3 am.  He wants to go back to bed.  So I try to make a controlled pleasant face, which I have been practicing in the mirror at home.  I didn't stop to consider the huge streaks of mascara running down my face may make me look ridiculous.  And then before I have time to work up anymore tears on behalf of my own mind numbing fear.....tada......a soggy, loud piglet.  A total stranger, in a wee little body, smelling like blood, or Heaven, if you roll like that, is having an angry fit over the bright lights and the big city.  My little Christmas present.  I swear, as much as I hate being pregnant, I would do it over and over and over again for the kids that I have.

Stage Mother

Who out there would have thought that I have the personality to become a 'stage mother'?  I am sure you've seen this obnoxious gal at a variety of events......the chick at the gymnastics meet that has put her toddler's hair into knots so complicated an accomplished old sea dog couldn't get them out, the baby's hair is strained at the roots, scalp barely able to hold on to the follicle.  Said child has glitter and makeup galore......and mother is uptight and pushing the child to excel beyond what her short, roly, two year old legs are capable of.  How about the parent that goes ballistic at the soccer game and goes to fists with the coach out on the field?  I would like to tell them to get a grip......it's only a game! 
Little League season is starting here.  Our lives will be held at gun point until June by the rigid schedule of games and practices.  Truth be told.....I don't really like have my life run by a sport.  You should get the feeling here that I'm not really even a fan of a game that I am not personally playing in.  Watching other people play sports is very much like watching another person play a video game........it's lame.  But when Maimy and I go out on opening day, when our girl is on the mound or up to bat.....Maimy can literally lose control.  (If it ever comes to the point where we are prosecuted for assault on a ball field, I WILL pretend I never posted this.)  If we are your friend in our regular lives, yet you have a child on an opposing team.  We are not your friend now.  Do not approach us at the ball field.  Do not sit on our stands.  Do not sit where we can hear you......especially where Maimy can hear you.
I have the heart of a marshmallow.  I try to do my visiting teaching.  I bring treats to nursery and read the little tykes stories.  I kiss and cuddle all 25 kids in my class at school.  I hope people don't look at me and hate all of the other Mormons they know just because they know me.  But please allow Maimy this one moment (or 2 months) of firey emotion.  She wants to win.  She doesn't want you to win.  I will cheer.  She will scream.  We will bash the umpire.....with enough restraint as to not be lead away in handcuffs.  When The Fire pitches, Maimy might, in  a loud voice, give her tips on what to do better.  When The Fire is up to bat, Maimy may become vocal when she wants her to swing.  We will only allow her to cry if she takes a fast pitch to the kidney......you know "There's No Crying In Baseball!!!" 
I'm already getting uptight.......Maimy can feel baseball in the air.

What if.........

I love to play 'what if'.  It's my favorite thing to do on a road trip.  Turn Rush Limbaugh on to a low hum, pop off the shoes and pull my feet up in the seat, and it's time to reconnect with Superman.  I like to talk to Bobby and I hope he likes to talk to me.  He's a pretty funny guy.  If he weren't verbally adept I think we wouldn't have made it very far. 

"Bob, what if you weren't funny?"  
"You would still love my for my physical prowess."

"What if I went on a mission?  Do you think you would have waited for me?  I don't think you would have."
"Um......I would have waited.  A) I was obsessed.....and might have died if you went on a mission.  B) And this is no credit to you.....No one else would have married me.  You should probably bear a great deal of shame that this is what you ended up with.  Besides my wit, highly attractive nature, and my above average fertility rate........I didn't bring much to the table."

"Bobby, what if I became a doctor?"
"You wouldn't have made it."
"Friggin thanks a lot!"
"No....I mean you are smart enough, but I don't think that's what you were meant to do.  You would have finished med school and then stayed home to be a mom.  That's what you were meant to do.  Look at your Nuggets.  You couldn't live without them."

"What if we weren't married and we met in an elevator?  Would you kiss me?"
"Well, Bob, that depends on if you were married, because I don't think you would kiss me if you were married to someone else.  You are too good."
"Ha.  You would kiss me anyway."
"What?  Why do you think that I have no scruples?"
"You couldn't resist me.  I know you would kiss me in an elevator if we were strangers.  Hahah.....look at you.  You know it's true.  I can tell just by looking at you."
(I decided to try to kiss him in an elevator and pretend we were strangers.  Attorney General Mark Shurtleff destroyed my opportunity and horned in on my elevator ride. Damn the man.)

"Bobby, what if we never met?  Do you think your life would be a lot different?  I think you would be an Lt. somewhere on your way up the ladder.......or a defense attorney.  I think I ruined your life."
"Well I definitely wouldn't be a road troop anymore.  And you would be married to a tank top wearing zoo keeper."
"No I wouldn't!!  I would be married to a doctor....the one I met in med school. Wait, no I wouldn't.  I wouldn't like his schedule either.  I would be married to a funny genius that had a lot of time off."

"What if I moved down here and we met in highschool?  Do you think you would have liked me then?"
"Ya.  I would have.  You were smart and funny......  I don't think you would have liked me though.  I was too shy."
"No joke."
"People thought I was stuck up."
"You are."
"No....I am very nice......extremely nice.....but I have parameters.....like small groups are better than large groups.   Any way.....I did suffer from extreme male phobia in highschool.  Which I have grown to realize I am grateful for.  I would have done anything for a guy after one kiss.  You should be happy I kept my lips to myself.  I was saving myself for you.  Don't you feel bad you kissed all of those girls?"
" (Snort)  Haaa, just because you didn't date ANYONE and therefore didn't even have a chance to kiss someone, doesn't mean you saved yourself for me."
"Yes I did meanie.  I am a fantastic kisser.  It's one of my only fantastic traits.  Lots of people would have kissed me."
"No."

"Bobby,, what if I were a cop?"
"You don't have enough frass."

The man kills me.  He knows me well enough to know what I am thinking about just by the way my heart beats.  It's sort of creepy.......in a good way.  Happy Valentines Day Bobby.  I love you.

The Crimson Tide

Yes.......that is a cloth sanitary pad :)  Why is it so cute?  I mean really.  Who will see this besides you and the inside of your undies?  Not to mention.......how long will it stay this cute?  Which then begs the question....do you REALLY want to clean and reuse?
Maimy and I contemplate this question and others like it as we sit bleary eyed with fatigue, angry for no good reason, having wept greater than 5 times in a twelve hour period.  As we write, we also consume an extra large BK fry, an extra large BK Coke, rest our elbows on what appears to be a four month pregnant pooch (in reality an amazing amount of bloat), try to reach around our tender lady lumps, and mindlessly scratch at our deteriorating skin condition. 
Ah, the joys of womanhood.  Brought to you directly from the two miniscule ovaries smack dab in your pelvis.  How is it that two little balls of power, each under two freaking inches, can run (or is it ruin?) your life from the time you are thirteen?  Every day, every week, these two little puppies can make you happy, sad, angry, hungry, bloated, hot for a handsome man, vindictive, demonically posessed, giddy, thin, weepy, and give you cravings Gandhi couldn't have fought?
Week #1  The Crimson Tide, aka The Red Witch, Aunty Flo, My Visitor, Bloody Mary, Riding the Cotton Pony.....etc.
      Pull out the ugly panties girls.  Stay close to the potty and open your baby name books for those clots large enough to qualify for a name.  Don't forget the mind bending cramps. Who among us doesn't live for this week?
Week #2  The Thin Week
     This is the week where your skin looks decent, your hair isn't greasy, your bloat has shed and that spare tire and full on banana nut muffin sitting on your hips are a shadow of what they will become in the weeks ahead.  You finally love your man and don't want to rip off his arms and blugeon him with them.  This chicks, is the week we live for.
Week #3 Ovulation Celebration
     Ah, finally the shooting pains and semi uncomfortable cramps that signal your fertility is at its max.  Unfortunately your tender pelvic region makes er......fertilizing painful in certain circumstances (read positions).  Dang those little balls of egg. They never give up.  Week #2 is really just there to taunt you. 
Week #4  The Depths of Hell, Crossing the River Styx, PMS or for you sorry sisters PMDD.
     This is where Maimy and I sit right now.  We were wondering if we suffer from PMS or the more sinister ugly sister........PMDD.  It is normal during this week to have varying degrees of cravings, salty and sweet.  Generally the cravings take over the suffering body and as if in a trance Maimy and I NEED (yes, we classify this as a need not a want) chocolate, coke, potato chips and french fries.  It's just a fact of life.  We also have varying degrees of anger.  People close to us may use the word 'rage'.  This is when you are most likely to hear the empty, yet hostile threats such as; 'I will rip off your arms, use them to beat you, and then shove them down your throat', 'One more sound and you will be pulling the teeth I punched down your throat....out of your rear end (rear end is only the clean version)', 'If you don't stop fighting I will run screaming into the night and never return', 'Heaven help me but I am going to break your bones', 'Touch me and I will rip your face off'.  These are mostly Maimy, considering I am a tame little puddy cat.  One or both Maimy and I can be found openly crying in public places for reasons severe or........not so much ie, the death of a fallen officer, leaving Max while I go to the store, loud noises, a sad book, a sad movie, talking about a sad book or movie, accidentally hitting my fists while boxing a pretend speed bag, not liking my hair, not liking my clothes, not liking that I am angry, not liking that my husband is at work, having my husband leave the house, being asked the same question more than once........really the list goes on.  Frankly anything, great or small during this week could make me a) cry or b) be consumed with rage or c) both.  And the sick thing is, the only way to stop PMS is to........er, ride the cotton pony.  Life is sick and twisted.
Maimy and I are a little despondent to see the facts laid out so formally.  Maybe it is the PMS, or the sleepiness from the double Whopper that we don't want to own up to.  She and I are going to bed, where if we lie on our backs and suck in our gut we look only mildly bloated.  Then we will close our eyes and dream of Week #2 where thin is in and our mood is pleasant.