The Jobless Goddess

I’ve got a legitimate question. Why is it that no matter how many grape tomatoes and kale salads I pack in my lunch, my middle still looks like I swallowed the Michelin Man? I’m beginning to look like a preschool drawing; a big circle with twigs sticking out of it. I realize I have the Guinness family to thank for some of this, but surely after months of never-before-attempted consistent exercise and more steamed broccoli than a pack of wild vegetarians could possibly consume, I should be able to add pants with zippers to my wardrobe by now. It could be genetics, and if so, then why God, didn’t I take after my mother? I don’t think she ever wore anything with a double digit. Of course, she did eat like a bird, except when it came to black jelly beans and her morning doughnut. The only thing I can come up with is that I’m over 50 now and I have stretched my skin so far over the years that it has to accumulate someplace and it decided to hang out right at centerfield. What’s