The Lady

The Lady
Jordan Silver
Copyright © 2017 Jordan Silver
All Rights Reserved

It felt like I was cannibalizing big chunks of my heart and lungs as I stepped off the death trap masquerading as a treadmill.
Sweat poured off my brow and pooled under my arms and between my thighs. I tried to convince myself it was worth it, but that argument was losing steam real fast.
I checked my watch as I walked into the bathroom and pulled the sweaty top off over my sweat soaked hair before dropping the threadbare leggings that had seen better days.
I gave the tap a vicious tug to turn on the spray of water as I berated myself for putting myself through this torture day after day. Especially since I was doing it for all the reasons. That reason being the most ungrateful son of a bitch in the world, namely my husband.
I scrubbed my already tender flesh too hard, too caught up in my anger to be careful. The warm water was having a soothing effect and by the time I switched off the water I was feeling less volatile.
Downstairs I threw some spinach, kale and celery in the juicer and turned up my nose at the green sludge that formed when I pushed the power button.
When I was a kid if my mom had tried feeding me this shit I would’ve painted the walls with it. Now here I am, a grown woman, finally in charge of my choices and yet I chose to do this shit. Again to please the least deserving person I know.
I held my breath and power gulped so that I didn’t have to taste this nasty bullshit that some skinny bitch who was probably scarfing down burgers and shoving her fingers down her throat so it didn’t show had said was the next best thing.
My anger just kept growing as I moved around my kitchen cleaning up the mess that wasn’t mine, but at least the rough swipes of the sponge over the countertops helped to relieve some of the pent up stress and frustration.
I threw the sponge onto the sink and missed when I was done and headed back upstairs to get dressed. My robe was a hot mess of washed out terrycloth but I refuse to buy a new one until I can buy one for my new size four body. That would be ten sizes away.
That’s another thing. I’ve been starving myself for damn near three months and I’d lost a grand total of five pounds. When I first set out on this starvation kick I’d done all the research available on Google and everyone said with exercise and a good diet this shit should work.
I’d like to find whoever it was that came up with the concept of dieting and plant my foot so far up their ass they could taste the leather of my worn out tennis shoe.
In the bedroom that I’ve shared with my deadbeat ‘soul mate’ for the best years of my life which I now knew had been wasted, I went through the closet in search of something that wouldn’t make me look like the offspring of the Good Year blimp and the bride of Chucky.
Fuck this shit. I want a double bacon cheese burger with fries and a Malta. My tummy rumbled in agreement but I knew all I had to look forward to was the dry ass energy bar I had tucked away in my purse and some fruity water. Ain’t this a bitch!
I finally decided on grey slacks and an off white silk blouse. These slacks are the only ones I have left that doesn’t make my ass look like it needs its own zip code, and the blouse has a cute bow with long sashes that camouflages my forty double D tits.
I used to be a svelte size six, but what pounds having children didn’t pile on, getting old did. Menopause is a psychopathic skanky twat who’d moved in and taken over everything in my life. And if you think she’s bad, you should meet her sister. Peri-menopause.
This dirty bitch gives you the hot flashes, dry cooch AND the inconsistent period. I’d gone from being regular as clockwork to soiling myself out in public because her skeazy ass decided she wanted to drop in unannounced whenever the hell she felt like it.
That’s right about the time I started looking at my husband out the side of my eye. Usually I could put up with his shit, but with the battle royale going on inside my body, I had no tolerance for bullshit.
All his lies and bullshit excuses just added to my frustration and it felt like one little love I had left after his fifth or sixth affair, just dwindled and died like a worm eaten apple on the branch.
I told myself not to think about that shit now as I pushed my feet into the heels that were supposed to make my calves look like a supermodel. Good trick. If you can find them. Some asshole man who’s been long dead and gone came up with that lie.
If I could find his headstone I’d take a sledgehammer to it. Lying ass. All these shits do is give me backaches and make the arches of my feet feel like a Japanese baby who was bound for the Geisha house.

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