You will be catching out engrossing trainer battles on the new Pokémon Go Generation…
When I was twenty-nine, people lied to me about turning thirty. Comments like; “It’s no big deal,” and, “I didn’t have any grief,” were running rampant. It wasn’t until I had passed my birthday, having mentioned that I was a little regretful about retaining my youth, that those same well-wishers changed their tunes. Suddenly, I was hearing things like, “Oh yeah, I felt like that, too,” and “I know what you mean.” Certainly, I won’t hold a grudge against these people, as it is water under the bridge now, but there is one issue that I could have used a forewarning on: back fat.
Yep, you read it right and you DO know what I mean. Unlike my sister (a virtual Mary Poppins-measuring up to be practically perfect in every way), I have always had to work to maintain a decent weight. Decent does not mean perfect, mind you. Really, it means that I count every calorie and workout twice a day just to fit into a single digit dress size (barely at that).
Perhaps turning thirty has catapulted me into a state of body dysmorphic disorder, but I am telling you that bathing suit shopping yesterday was Hell. I stood in front of the mirror, surrounded by two-piece rejects, grabbing the sides of my lower back and swearing that the mirror was lying to me. Then, I went home and, stripping down, I stood in front of MY trustworthy mirror. Only, that mirror must have been lying, too, because the fat was still there. After a visit at https://www.artofwarquotes.com/leptitox-review/ site, the elimination of fat is great from the body of the customers. The rankings and reviews can be checked for the purchase of the fat reduction products. The confidence will boost with the morale of the people with impressive look.
I decided to be proactive about the situation and discovered that it was bleak. First, I went to my sister (bad idea). After explaining the malady (and watching her scarf down a bag of potato chips with heaps of dip), she gave me her “thoughtful” answer. “Well, Juls,” she said, “you’re over thirty now. This is just what happens.” Silently, I chanted my own version of voodoo upon her that she may pack on post-thirty pounds in great excess. Then, I moved on to the next person.
My second attempt to resolve the issue was with my trusty friend, Anne (also a recent victim of this age milestone). I felt confident that she could help me. Having known her for nearly ten years, she has long since proven herself to be a great ally in the war on fat. My hopes were dashed when she e-mailed me the other day with no solution. At best, she informed me that she and her husband have been plagued as well. This hit me hard on two levels. The first level was that she knew of no exercise that would rid me of this chub. I figured if Anne doesn’t know of something for this, then no one does. The second issue was her husband’s complaints. Like my sister, Anne’s husband has always been the long and lean type. If he has back fat, I really am screwed.
Then, I decided that I should try to talk to someone older and wiser about the issue. I turned to Mary, a fifty-something receptionist at my workplace. As I bent down next to her desk to throw something in the garbage, I gave my complaint. She laughed heartily and quickly added to my dilemma. As I was bent over, the side of my shirt rode up just enough for her to get a good look at it. “Ooh,” she moaned, “you even have stretch marks there. How do you have stretch marks if you never had kids?” Having never noticed the ever-so faint lines on the skin, I trekked myself into the employee bathroom, pulled up my shirt, and inspected the area. Sure enough, she was right.
I re-entered the office just in time for the child care worker, Sandy, to jump into the conversation. She, too, had this disability and had spent considerable time trying to come up with a remedy. She decided that her fat was actually a mistake of the higher powers. She realized that somewhere in her creation, God had actually put tissue in her back that was really meant for her chest. She has been considering several surgery options to correct the deformity.
Having given up on ever ridding myself, deciding that I would forever wear a two-piece with a tee shirt, I complained about this to my parents. While my mom took all of this with a grain of salt, my dad opted for consolation. “That’s okay, hon,” he chirped, “lots of guys like girls with meat on their bones.”
Yeah, someone get me a gun.