Pickles & Dimes

On Saturday, I had just stepped out of the shower when I noticed a black half-dollar-sized bruise on my upper thigh. As I investigated further and wracked my brain on how that could have happened (foosball injury? gardening bruise? general clumsiness?), I spotted something. Something that besides a giant cancerous tumor, fresh dollop of cellulite, or alien head sprouting from your abdomen you never want to see on your body.

Specifically, I saw stretch marks.

On my ass.

Let me repeat that. There Were. Stretch Marks. On My Ass.

Not directly on my ass per se, but if you put your hands on your hips and moved them down about 4 inches – there. Near the ass. Adjacent to.

Horrified, I leaned closer to the mirror, trying to get a better look. I was hoping against hope that it was sheet marks. I had it all worked out in my head – I had slept in twisted sheets, they had wrapped around me, and they had made ugly marks. Yes. That is what happened.

Then I turned and examined the other side of my body and found pale, skinny stretch marks there, too.

WHY. ON. GOD’S. GREEN. EARTH. WERE. THERE. STRETCH. MARKS. ON. MY. ASS?!?

As an unsuspecting Jason wandered by, I enlisted his help by hissing hysterically at him, “Look at my ass! Are these STRETCH MARKS?!?”

He told me no, but I saw his eyes, people. They were dead inside.

As I began chanting “ohgodohgodohgodohgod,” he reassured me they were “barely visible.”

And he’s right, I guess. They are barely visible. Unless you have the gift of sight.

All day long I thought about them. For the rest of the morning: (I have stretch marks – on my ass.)

As we ordered lunch with my family: “I’ll have the steakhouse chili.” (And the stretch marks.)

As we played mini-golf: “Nice shot, Dad.” (Stretch marks!)

As a sudden hailstorm forced us to pull over on the freeway on the way home: (ON MY ASS!)

And as my brain couldn’t handle it anymore, I said out loud: “I have stretch marks – on my ASS.”

“Oh lord,” Jason said. “How long are you going to obsess about this?”

“Just today,” I told him and then silently added, “And every day after that.”

Apparently, my  weight gain allowance is less than 25 pounds over a 14-year period, because I only weigh 23 pounds more than I did in high school, when I weighed 122 and looked like an impoverished urchin.

Regardless, if all my weight had gone to my boobs instead, we wouldn’t be having this problem. I have more than enough spare room there to accommodate additional square footage.

On my ass, not so much. Sell fat someplace else – we’re all full up here.