Poetic justice.

I decided yesterday that I missed being tan. I've been so consumed with The Punky that I have failed to recognize what a pasty, sickly looking beast I've become. Tanning beds are out of the question, namely because all of my mad money got spent on A's Father's Day present, so I decided to take advantage of holes in the O-zone layer and lay out to tan.

I laid Punky down for her nap. I grabbed a book (currently reading "A Million Little Pieces" -- so what if it's all fake, it's still a good book). I popped open a lawn chair and I sprawled out, sitting on the chair with my legs kicked up onto the ledge of our deck. And I tanned for a glorious hour.

And I burned. God, how I burned. My whole front side is burned and sore, but that's not even the worst of it. My stomach looks like this:


If you're wondering what you're looking at (besides my second belly-button, the result of prego stretching on a navel piercing, it is gross) -- in the middle you can see where my fat folded over, that's that big pasty white strip. And then those two elipses above it? Yeah, that would be boob shadow.

Not a single stretch mark to be spoken of, but all you fellow moms out there cursing me can keep looking at that picture and laughing. If it wasn't my stomach, and if the burnt area didn't hurt so goddamn bad, I'd laugh, too...