Bitch # 1 Who the f**k is that in the mirror?

Sometimes I find the need to bitch. Not always about anything all that important, often random crap that just comes to my head. So here is my first, unimportant, random bitch .

I undressed in the wrong part of my bedroom. I had to walk past the mirror to get to the closet, and I did so without even thinking, mistake #1 I turned and looked in the mirror, like really looked. Mistake #2 I mean examining every little, or should I say large, gigantic even, imperfection I found. The left over skin from having babies, eighteen and fourteen years ago. The stretch marks from those god awful nine months of shear hell. I'm sorry but when I see those women that glow of pure nurturing motherly beauty when they are pregnant, I just wanna chop their hair off or something to ugly them up a little. I puked all through my first pregnancy and got as big as a house through the second. I felt ugly and gross, I was gassy and smelly the whole time. Yuck! And I'm still carrying the weight! My belly is lined with horrible deep purple scars that I don't wear with pride, I cover up and pray that I will someday have a tummy tuck and they will be gone too. 

I looked at the horrible bit of skin under my arms that will prevent me from clapping in tshirts until I get back to the gym and work that and my ass off. I felt myself leaning in closer to the mirror for further inspection. I tried to pull back, knowing full well this will not have a pleasant out come. But instead my weakness to pick at all my flaws and little bumps and spots won over my apparently non existent self restraint. Oh my dear lord, what the hell happened to my face? Wait is that another grey hair? I thought I paid to have that evidence of my age covered up? Maybe it's just poor lighting in the bathroom, I'm sure that could cause it to look like I have all these imperfections that aren't really there. Oh thank god for make- up! 

I turned to my closet (full of clothes) fuck I have nothing to wear! Why is it that no matter how full your closet is, it never has anything to wear, well never the magic outfit that will make you look like a super model or Jennifer Aniston or who ever you wished you look like? I wonder if Jennifer ever wakes up and says "man I wish I looked like a frumpy woman who's had two kids and never got her body back." somehow I doubt it.

I put on my faithful jeans that seem to grow along with me, and a shirt that allows me to breath and not cover my middle with anything I can. 

There, I'm dressed. Let's go have dessert!