(SNN) - I hope it’s simply not too late for me now that the US government is banning bad fats that stick to our bodies for eternity. I was always blaming myself.

I thought I was going mad as my clothes shrunk in the washing machine or even immediately after I removed them from a parcel after a purchase.

I mistakenly believed the fashion world was making all styles smaller than usual.

Then there was the noise emanating from my bedroom. Yes, my clothes wanted to come out of the closet. They had revolted. Not only because I stretched them though, I heard them whisper about my fickleness which they seem to take personally. They are not wrong when they talk of me forgetting them when I purchased something that actually fits. It is true, I can love my frock, not be seen without it off my back for weeks but alas, as soon as another catches my fancy and fits my fanny, well frankly the others no longer exist in my memory. I am not proud of this but I admit it here and now; I am nothing but a clothes slut.

My old clothes are noisy and vengeful. I have not had a good night sleep in ages. I know what you are thinking. Well, you’d be paranoid too if you were as tired as I am. The clothes are mean spirited.  They continually fall of the hangers or catch on to one another.  They play hide and seek when they know I am in a hurry.

Thus my need for therapy.

My therapist, Dr. Plink, (that is not really her name but the sound the ice cubes made as she poured herself a drink half way through each session) seemed to be developing a tick. She often let out a big sigh.  She had suggested I go on a soul journey to the Himalayas or Vegas to find the inner answers. If only I knew the questions.

Between me and my shadow I was getting bigger by the minute. Not to place blame, (though I hate you trans fat), but I also believe my inner child had put on same excess adipose.  Plus they say, remember them, that television makes one appear 10 pounds heavier.  I have three sets so in reality that is thirty pounds of an optical illusion.  Still I knew the doctor was not totally cuckoo.  I was losing it—not the fat of course, but my mind.

I got on a train for Katemoss Mountain where I hoped to find answers and a bagel. As the train rambled on I fantasized a perfect party in my head. I’d invite Ben and Jerry, Mama Celeste, Sara Lee, Laura Scudder. I was really cooking now in the kitchen of my mind.

Then, I saw a sweet handsome soul looking at me.  I felt calm. Yes, I would be all right.  It would be revealed to me in good time what my destiny and purpose in life was, and why birds suddenly appear in my brassiere.  It is rumored it is the rare crumb that I accidentally do not devour that attract them.

On my spiritual quest, I’d find out what it was all about and then tell Alfie.

Just then a smiling man whispered to me

“Lady, show me your ticket.”

I’m a seasoned dame. I knew just what that meant.

I would be heading to enlightenment in slim town and I would not be going solo.

Bye bye trans fat.  So long sucker. It is over… and it’s not me; its you!  THE END

Dancin, Schmancin with the Scars: Finding the Humor No Matter What! received a smashing review from Wit and Humor Magazine and others. Buy some books, donate to veterans, hospitals, friends in need of a chuckle and others who want techniques to get to a joyful place. Or at least write a blurb if you like it, too. If not write on someone else's page. If you are on Goodreads, please consider suggesting this satirical survival book.   BUY YOUR COPY TODAY

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