So I was walking past the full length mirror in my room- yes, a full length mirror. If you don't have one, you are doing yourself a disservice. You can often tell someone who doesn't have a full length mirror in their house because, daa-yum, you should not be wearing those pants.
So I was walking past the full length mirror in my room, naked- yes, naked. I would make excuses about having just gotten out of the bath, which is true, but this is my bedroom, y'all. I walk around naked. Get past it.
So I was walking past the full length mirror in my room, naked, as I was making the bed- okay, yes, making the bed naked is a little odd, I admit, but it was naked, too- sheets came off and never went back on this morning. And I wanted to go to bed. And Sam's not home. And I am not sleeping on a naked bed, that's just skeevy. And I'm a little drunk. But it's all fine because the sheets are now on the bed.
So I was walking past the full length mirror in my room, naked, as I was making the bed, when I noticed that the sunburn on my lower back was smaller than usual. I know, odd sentiment. But the fact is, as I work outside, inevitably my shirt- usually a tank-top, hence the matching burned shoulders and upper back- works its was upward, revealing the hitherto un-publicly-known lower back (oh, hell, and love handles and belly). This is due to the fact that the stretchmarks that decorate said belly and love handles stretch all the way around my waist. What in the living hell was stretching during pregnancy that my back had to get involved? Please answer me that.
Several moments of drunken contemplation led to me the conclusion that this- the smaller burn area- is not because today's shirt was longer than usual. No, indeed. This was because said shirt was not nearly as tight, leading it to not have to work so damn far up over the aforementioned love handles.
This, however, was not the greatest of revelations in those few confused moments. The far more profound one was that this patch of sun burn sat directly on top of the crack of my rear. There is a T printed on my ass. The problem with this? Exactly how much of my crack was I showing off today? For it to be burnt right to the very upper edge, my pants must have been slipping down past that point repeatedly. So during all this yard work, I'm actually playing plumber. And did I mention the T my tush is donning?
I only have myself to blame. I'm down eight pounds to where I was last year (yeah, woohoo, except it was twelve pounds), which leads to the offending moon-show, and I refuse to buy new pants until I drop more. This hasn't happened in eight months, yet here I wait. It seems so stupid to spend money on clothes you hope to shrink out of. As I am the Official Bitch of Murphy's Law, something like my buying pants would lead to me losing weight in a manner to thus lead to me not being able to wear those clothes.
I'd just lose it in the form of a dog attack to my thigh or something.