Skinny b!tch

There is a lady at my gym who is in absolutely perfect shape... The kind the gym can't get you without a healthy dose of genetic predisposition. She works herself hard. She smiles. Her hair is highlighted and her mani pedi is absolutely perfect. I hate her.

I've never spoken to her. That doesn't stop me from secretly wishing she'd occasionally fall of her treadmill or fart from the elliptical. I hate her based on a deep desire to have that body. I have no idea if she has kids, how old she is, or whether she eats potato chips in the car at stoplights. For all I know, she could be miserable as heck, but I still envy her vision of perfect perkiness and she merrily trots away at the treadmill, perkily bouncing as she listens to her ipod.

I, on the otherhand, heave and huff and puff through my workout. I don't enjoy the gym, perferring to curse the machines as I'd they did this to my body. The lady in front of me glistens - I pour sweat. She bounces. I jiggle. But as I watch her derriere sway, I struck by a bolt of lightening.

There is nothing wrong with my life. I have three beautiful children, a loving husband. A bank account that never tells me insufficient funds. Friends who encourage me to go to the gym without telling me my fat ass needs it.

Its possible that the Lil Ms Perfect in front of me has this too - but that's her life and I'm living my life.

Even if I stare at her and secretly wish that just once she'd fall down.
Sent wirelessly from my BlackBerry device on the Bell network.
Envoyé sans fil par mon terminal mobile BlackBerry sur le réseau de Bell.