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No matter your size, we all have stubborn areas we want to work on so we can look and feel our best. Today, I’m talking back to mine.
Dear Back Fat,
You know, I don’t recall inviting you to this party. I looked up one day, and there you were, all up in my face. Well, my back, but you get what I’m trying to say. You just bogarted your way in, made yourself comfortable like you discovered and owned this territory. Perhaps Columbus-ed is a more accurate description. You swore you knew my curves and trenches like an old flame who left a dormant marker made to surface when the land was ripe.
What exactly are you trying to tell me? That my metabolism has slowed down now that I’m in my 30s? That I can’t put a tattoo on my upper torso, lest it get lost in translation? (I didn’t want one there, anyway.) Think I’m scared of you? I mean, I am, but that still doesn’t excuse the fact that you showed up in my life uninvited. Your creep was silent. Well played, back fat. Well played. Now that you’re here, you have my full attention.
Just know that I will be picking away at you, chiseling you into extinction. Once you’re gone, you won’t be missed and you certainly won’t be brought back. This is a no-sequel zone. It’s not that I think you’re ugly, mind you. I’ve worked hard at loving my physical self – jelly, scars, stretch marks and all, so I won’t dare call you the “u” word or any other word that simplifies my existence. I am neither my skin nor my body, and my beauty is more vast than you could comprehend. But I only have one body and I kind of want it to last. And while some conditions are hereditary, I have no desire to have high blood pressure, high cholesterol or diabetes. Early prevention is key so you gotsta go. You and your cousin, muffin top.
Before you get all self-righteous, let me be honest here. You didn’t just magically appear. I didn’t just turn around and peep your protruding bulge in the mirror only to act all surprised. I ate you into existence and gave you a rent-free home when I failed to exercise enough. I was too busy being busy, going gangsta on jar after jar of cookie butter, eating quick meals on the go. As a result, my clothes fit tighter. Do you know how hard it is to shop for jeans, to find the right cut and fit that will not only accentuate the right spots but not kill my bank account? You don’t, do you? I think it’s safe to assume you don’t care either.
How rude.
Thirty-day notices are the norm for eviction letters, but since you’re a stubborn old thang, I hereby give you 60 days to vacate the premises. Better yet, I’ll give you however long it takes for me to get rid of you. You just got served. Go home, Roger. I wanna see you out that door, baby, bye, bye, bye. By the way, I’m inundating you with the lingo from an era long past ‘cause that’s exactly where you belong. Get thee behind me. I’m going to do my part and I need you to do yours. Thank you for understanding.
Sincerely,
Nneka
