Ode to my Cellulite

I wake up in the morning and look at myself in my full length mirror and caress my - cellulite.

Yep Yep. My cellulite.

Now, I must admit, sometimes I am in a state of constant denial about the size of my derriere (or glutes, superimposed by a layer of fat), being at least ten inches bigger than my waist(super duper imposed). However I cannot deny, as my rear end knocks over paper and pencils as I walk through isles, the fear that an eraser might accidentally get stuck in one of my nooks or crannies camouflaged by my jeans.

And whoever created space efficient chairs were not considering those of us subject to the disposition of the derriere because my thighs spill over the sides like country gravy on a biscuit - on a saucer. I should not have to shake to sit down and be comfortable because I do enough of that trying to get dressed in the mornings in addition to the once a month visit by the devil himself.

Cottage cheese ain't got nothing on me. From what I hear, it doesn't have much taste unless you eat it with fruit. While I am not affording anybody the opportunity to taste, I think I got mad flavor. Like Focaccia bread.

I looked at it one time in just the right light, and I could have sworn I saw the Virgin Mary.

I'm obsessed with my cellulite and they want me to go to rehab, but I say no, no, No. I love my booty, just a little jiggle but a whole lot of wiggle.

I'm hitting the gym though eventually, to smooth it out, trying catch up to Buffie the Body and Ki Toy. Bounce a nickel, sit a cup - or carry a lunch tray. I got you. Plus, I heard they make good money at Magic City.

'Tis all.