I am declaring a moratorium on the discussion of, allusion to, or even thought of items of food and various exercises as they relate to calories, fuel, diet, maintenance, and health, while in or near the presence of Prucilla. Friends and relatives shall not, when in her presence, discuss how many calories are in X, nor how many or few calories they or Pru has consumed. Nor shall they discuss her exercise regimen, nor their own. I do not think that a stimulating conversation consists of someone telling me about how many reps they did, nor what food they ate and why, nor what happens when you eat two protein bars in one day. The moment one begins speaking of such nonsense, Pru’s brain will seize, her eyes will roll back into her head, and she will begin to drool/froth. Or, if she is having a great day, she will simply expect you to hand her the nearest and dullest utensil available, so she can shove it through her skull. If one insists on conversing in such a manner, they should at least have the decency to contract their zero-calorie-filled-sentences into a speech lasting no longer than 30 seconds (which is significantly more time than it will take me to stick a fork in my eye).
In a somewhat related tirade, I have noticed an alarming trend amongst the young ladies. What is this frightening business with the overgrown toenails? On Monday, Sam came in with her toenails horrifically done in a “French” manicure. She had them painted hot pink, with white tips, which gave them the alarming effect of having all been chipped and way overgrown. I was trying to find a still from the movie, Nacho Libre, because it really has the horrific effect of Eskeleto’s toenails: Nauseating. It’s what Jo and Vic refer to as Horrified Fascination Syndrome (HFS), where my eyes are transfixed and no matter how hard I try to divert my gaze, the eyes, they will not move. I keep thinking that I am seeing hands instead of feet, and then I am reminded of apes, which leads to the consideration that these women might eat with their feet. It’s a well-known parlor trick of mine–picking things up with my feet-but I certainly wouldn’t eat with them. Disgusting. How about a cultural moratorium on that hideous act of blatant hygiene defiance and just plain bad taste?
The eyebrows, however…I always come back to the eyebrows, because it wasn’t until I was 28 or 29 that I had my eyebrows “shaped.” I had no idea that being girly took quite so much work, and frankly, was under the misguided impression that women were simply born that way. The process of eyebrow waxing has always made me wonder: Has anyone ever had their eyebrows shaped into cartoon-esque angry brows? You know, the straight lines angled down and inward. Now, that would be some awesome brow.
From toes to potatoes, I will circle back to my moratorium. The last bit of which is this: That, whomsoever offers Prucilla a half a baked potato for dinner will rue their dietary fate. I have come to the hard-won conclusion that Mother Nature piles the fat on the pregnant ladies for a reason, and it has nothing to do with growing healthy babies, nor breastfeeding. The reason is toddlers. That fat store, which I so diligently depleted, would come in mighty handy right now, as my food intake is seriously compromised by toddler activity, and the Pru requires a little more sustenance than half of a baked tuber.
In conclusion, no longer will such verbiage regarding said infractions be tolerated without the induction of a narcoleptic fit, a violent rage, etc. There have got to be a billion more interesting things to speak of, and the Pru is in dire need of adult conversation.
Lovely, conversant weekend to all,
PruÂ
