I have this bump on the palm of my hand. I wouldn’t have noticed it except I do push-ups (and other torturous exercises to stay in shape), so I am aware of this constant bruised feeling,
I mentioned in passing to POB that the bump hasn’t gone away and the bruised feeling remains (probably because every time I work out with my trainer, I exacerbate the problem).
“Maybe it is a fat deposit.”
WHOA. I know we are lesbians and we have to fight that creepy urge to merge into one being and all, but who, WHO, said it was ok to suggest that I might have a fat deposit?
In fact, I reviewed our wedding vows, both in Hebrew and in English, and I did not find any authority whatsoever for the proposition that POB could safely (and thus without consequences) intimate that I have a FAT deposit wherever found in my body. Not even in the innocuous place like the palm of my hand.
In all honesty, I do have some deposits in other parts of my body, which are increasing at the same exponential rate as oil reserves are being depleted. (Why, oh why, can’t modern science suction cellulite and use it instead of fossil fuels?) But this is AFTER the wedding, AFTER I fit into an unforgiving dress, AFTER I wore body armor. So, go on, make my day. Get a GET (a Jewish religious divorce) at your peril.
I know, I know, POB didn’t suggest I was like Ben & Jerry’s ice cream flavor (Chunky Monkey) or suggest the FAT DEPOSIT was in a place that would offend my inner diva.
Ok, it is in my palm.
But it is a fat deposit. So, POB has to climb out of the ditch on this one.
Maybe I will send her out for Chunky Monkey. Ahhh, a Pyrrhic Victory if ever there was one.
But a VICTORY nonetheless. And when you are 40-and-over, every victory counts.