An open letter to an uncaring Universe

Dear Universe,

We haven't always seen eye to eye, have we? The whole me not ending up 5-foot-10 wasn't quite like the deal we had, and I'm pretty sure there was some unfulfilled obligations on your part regarding the whole "Blondes have more fun" concept. I'd hire me a lawyer if I knew where to send the resulting court-related paperwork.

But this latest shenanigan of yours really takes the cake. Cake . . . yeah, that's the idea.

You see, dear Universe, dear sweet, well-organized-and-yet-cruelly-humorous Universe, I am starving. Unfortunately, perhaps, not literally.

Here's how it all started:
I woke up this morning, according to the rhythms of life which you ordained, and nearly scared myself out of my wits. I had inadvertently looked in the mirror, and saw not the lovely, svelte 25-year-old I am used to seeing, but something hideously distorted. When, O Universe, did I get this old and this fat?

Oh, sure, I may have craved the products of Messrs. Ben and Jerry--your evil minions of all that is yummy--through my first pregnancy, the resulting post-partum period, as well as my son's infancy, toddlerhood, and early childhood. I may have become the best homemade-bread baker in the world--or at least on my street. I may have indulged from time to time in a small snack or thirty of whatever chocolate was lying around the grocery store. (Not that I stole it--I've always been scrupulously honest about my commercial activities. I just bought in bulk. Thank you, Costco--I'm drafting my letter to you next!) I'm willing to admit my part in the current fiasco. But the majority of the blame lies with you, dear Universe.

Did you have to make chocolate and carbs so tasty and broccoli so green? Whose idea was it to make the dressing more enjoyable than the salad it drenches? Why can we send a robot to Mars, but not perfect the no-cal sundae? Seriously, what were you thinking?

And so I have been forced to take action. I have parted from the loves of my fat life: chocolate, bread, anything enjoyable, and have sentenced myself to veggies, chicken chests, and water. Humph! I'm hungry, and it's all your fault. I'm suffering for your sins.

I'm willing to negotiate. I'll stick this out for as long as I can, and in return, you'll remove the calories from cheesecake. We'll call it even. If you have a counter-offer, you know where to find me. And this time it won't be in the snack aisle.

Chubbily but determinedly yours,
Melia