Fat ass day

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I woke up this morning and realized - I'm having a fat ass day.

I then realized, I'm not.

It's funny, when you take an objective look at the subjective world of delusional days. Things like "fat ass" day... when you feel like parts of your body have ballooned (or in the case of "saggy boobs" day, shrunk) when it makes absolutely no sense that size has changed in the last 12 hours at all. After all, when I put on my pants this morning, they fit the same as they did when I took them off last night. My bra is no less empty on saggy boob day than regular day. My evening of restless sleep did not, in fact, cause my buttocks to swell or cleavage to diminish further in any way. And I know that if I had a scale in my house, I have no doubt that it would say the same number as it said yesterday.

Yet still, when I woke up this morning, I knew it was, without a doubt, a fat ass day.

It's the same lack of reasoning that belongs to many mental issues in this world. I find it distinctly funny when I have a huge pimple on my face, and someone compliments my skin (which never happens when I have no pimples, by the way.) Or when I'm having a "bad hair day" and no one notices that my hair is any different at all - and in fact, I would guess they'd probably say my hair looks exactly the same as it always does. In fact, I would also venture to guess that some people feel they are having a good hair days actually need to know that they, in fact, are definitely NOT (I'm thinking mostly tourists from the Midwest who forget that "feathers" thankfully went out with Farrah Fawcett TV shows and only belong on boas sported by cross-dressing men in the Village Halloween parade.)

I don't understand why this happens, or if it happens to most people at all. Maye it's just me being hyper analytical of a temporary spike in body image issues. Who knows. But when some days when I feel my skin is particularly gross looking, I'll get compliments, and on other days when I feel like I'm looking pretty good, no one notices (especially YOU, Mr. Hottie-who-orders-toasted-sesame-bagel-with-cream-cheese-at-Metro-Cafe-every-morning.)

I don't usually care - those of you that know me well know I don't obsess over these types of issues regularly. I find that is irrelevant, especially when it comes to the parts of the body that I don't even have to look at (my booty) especially when I know that most of it is psychological garbage. I do wish I could move things around a little sometimes (hell, I'm 36, what do you expect?), but not enough that I'm visiting plastic surgeons to see what gets to be pulled where.

So for now, put on the Spanx, ya'll... or just embrace the big booty day and be thankful that Beyonce has made it okay to be bootylicious... at least until tomorrow.

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Oh, and Happy St. Patrick's day! Or, as we NYCers call it... Amature Night. May your fake ID's hold up to scrutiny and your green beer not taste too bad the second time around.