Happy HNT

No HNT for me today. I feel too blechy to even contemplate contemplating some part of my body to post online. I have a shot of my belly avec belly ring but it was taken before I lost more baby weight and I will refrain from posting that here. I thought I looked good back when the picture was taken, but since I've lost more weight now I think I looked a bit pudgy podgy in that shot. Not that a little pudge is bad; I just have issues when it's located on my own being. America Ferrera? Sexy as hell (you've gotta see her outside of the "Ugly Betty" show, which I actually have never watched). Me? No. It's funny how sometimes despite our own concepts of beauty we sometimes still bend a knee to what the general public percieves to be beautiful. Hence, we hold ourselves to different standards from those which we expect others to keep. There is something so wrong about that, and yet I still fall into the trap. The most evil traps are those which we can plainly see but still dive into headlong.

Anyway, it's that time of the month and I feel horrible. There should be some cosmic law that states that once a woman endures the trials of pregnancy and childbirth she will get a break when it comes to the monthly visitor. I feel worse now than I ever did before I got pregnant; every month there are two days when I'm rendered barely competant to leave my house. During those days, the crayons come out for my daughter and I move as little as I possibly have to, housework and paperwork be damned. Of course, the only two options to having a "monthly" are being pregnant, in which case I would feel considerably worse and for a much longer period of time, or going through menapause. Since I experienced the famed Hot Flash while I was pregnant and know its evil, I have vowed that when the time comes for me to experience the joys of menapause I will be taking whatever drug is deemed safe to take to combat its unpleasant side effects. In any event, I'm not sure why I felt the need to come online and kvetch about the inner workings of my body today; call it lame performance art. Or something.