Something happens in January that I hate with a passion. Oh, it's not the whole "new year, new calendar" thing. Although, if you must know, I did forget to get a calendar until two weeks ago. Do you know what was left in the calendar section? Yes, "12 Months of Cats" or-and I'm not joking here-"Porn for Women." Yes, I chose the cats. I wanted to be daring, but it seemed weird to write my husband's dental appointments on another man's bare…chest.
Anyway, something worse happens in January. Because that, my friends, is when the stores put out the swimsuits. It's like a conspiracy. The swimsuit industry waits until we've all eaten our fill of cookies and pie and turkey and roast beast and then they dare us to stuff our fat butts into tiny pieces of Lycra without having the Lycra explode.
Yeah, like that's going to work.
Anyway, normally I can just walk right by those bathing suits and not feel a thing. Oh, whom am I fooling? I hate them. They are objects of tortureRead More »from If it's January it Must be Mom's Swimsuit Season