Those days

Last week, my five and a half year old Bug, being the honest child he is, told me I'm fat.
I didn't say he was the brightest bulb in the pack, just honest.
After I picked myself up off the floor and dusted off my hurt feelings, I realized I don't look like I did as a newlywed more than a century ago.
Okay, only fifteen years, but it feels like more than a century. In dog years. So like, 700 years.
Most days, I know I'm a little fluffier than I used to be. I wish I was that skinny chick I was before four pregnancies and life jumped smack on my ass.
But I'm okay with myself.
Sort of.
I walk miles at lunch, try to eat healthy (Oreo Double Stuff Cakesters are healthy, right?) and do some of the right things.
The Man still pants after me. Or maybe that's his bad heart that making him pant . . .hmmm.
I can still run, sort of, if you don't count my thighs slapping together and the ground screaming for mercy with each footfall.
I still have perky boobs. . . with the right push up bra. (Hey, you try having three sharks attached to your nipple for a year and see how perky your knockers are!)
I have a nice road map for my life to study . . .on my stomach.
But I'm not fat. I am well cushioned, have a good center of gravity, and am nice to snuggle up with on a cold winters night.
There's a skinny chick in me dying to get out.
She's suffocating.