Yes, I am eating my entire birthday cake by myself.
Call it twenty-six.
Call it pathetic.
Call it what you will.
I will call it delicious.
And with each bite, I think of my mom, who baked this cake for me.
And I’m glad that she didn’t go to Rick’s bakery to get a fancy cake with too-sweet icing.
I’m glad she baked it herself and used my favorite frosting — the kind I used to dip my fingers into when I was a kid.
And I’m glad that my mom was the kind of mom who let me dip my fingers in the icing.
I’m glad she was the kind of mom who never, ever said a word about my weight.
So here’s what I’m thinking, after eating my piece of chocolate cake, waiting to edit the final pages of The Free Weekly.
Who cares if you get fat?
Oh, it’s health you’re worried about?
For some of you, perhaps.
But if you’re like me, it’s staring at the cover of the summer tabloid at the checkout line, mentally quaking at the cellulite dotting the legs of ill-proportioned celebrities. The flabby arms, the bloated bellies — and the neon splash across the page that says “LOOK WHO’S FAT AND DISGUSTING!”
And guess what WORLD, I’m a size zero to size two; and I HAVE CELLULITE.
Yes, because I eat chocolate cake.
Yes, because I live at a desk.
And YES, one day, I may be weeded out because the evolutionary model will see me as a weak link.
But, I stand before you now — no, let’s be honest, I’m sitting, perpetually sitting — saying if I EVER care about my weight, it will be because I want to be healthy, NOT because I’m afraid of you seeing my bare ass.
Because 1) I have no delusions about my celebrity standing and 2) Don’t Care.
SO EAT CAKE, BOYS AND GIRLS! And effing enjoy it. Or it’s not worth the Mama who made it.