If I have my calculations right, I am about 15 pounds away from finally being happy in my life.

Now is that interval when I have to listen to you blabber on that happiness is not about what size dress you wear (or how much your thighs rub together are or…blah-blah). This is the exciting moment, building up to the really exciting moment in which you tell me that (News Flash!) beauty comes from within, right?

To acknowledge our inner beauty is to make us truly happy.

Your mom knitted this on a throw pillow once, so you know it’s true.

That’s cool, dude. I can see why you need to believe that shit. I am sure your inner beauty is a solid 10.

But I’m going a different route. And it would please me greatly not to have to chat about anything that no one can see in any picture on Tinder.

I am honing in here on what really matters to people that really matter in the world—the way I look.

Which is why it’s pretty exciting to know that when I lose 15 more pounds, I am going to finally, eternally, be happy.

And even though you don’t require an explanation (since you are not beautiful, and therefore, do not matter very much), I will tell you how I know that, in 15 pounds, I will be happy.

Evidence A:

My three chins, my newly laced Nikes will no longer be the siren song to every veiny necked trainer on the gym floor. My ass will not speak the universal language of: Help Me Understand Why I Suck at Life. No more unintentional utterances from my rear end jiggles: Find me on the treadmill in the back and tap me on the shoulder. Please pick me, pick me! I am the fattest one here! Yay! Talk to me immediately, about low-carb eating and the advantage of weight training. I have never heard of these things you lecture about: pedometers? Counting calories? What sorcery is this you speak of?

When I lose 15 pounds: I will not have to talk to strangers at the gym about my fatness; thus be able to listen to my Best of 90’s Hip Hop Playlist in it’s entirety.

Then: I will be happy.

Evidence B:

I will not have to wear “tight underwear”*** under every dress, skirt or pair of slacks to avoid offending people with my stomach rolls. I will not have to stuff myself in white spandex torture pants each morning, knowing I will not be able to inhale deeply for the next 14-16 hours. I will not have to rifle through the racks of lingerie at Target on my hands and knees, searching for just the right combination of Reduces Thigh Bulge and Tames Your Tummy in a size Large.

When I lose 15 pounds: I will be able to simultaneously wear underwear and breathe. Every. Day.

Then: I will be happy.

***Perhaps you aren’t familiar with “tight underwear”? This explains why we haven’t met before, you probably don’t travel in my gravel. (which is, you guessed it! Mostly drive-thru’s and candy aisles). Basically, my “tight underwear” keeps you from having to visually deal with the flabby end product of my drive through binges and cake obsession.

Evidence C:

I will be able to be occasionally hilarious when out in social situations, without the risk of being automatically locked into the role of Funny Fat Girl from which there is no escape. When you are comically robust and frequently sardonic, there is the looming fear that you are one joke away from having to forever be the Melissa McCarthy of the Saturday Night Parenting Potluck. Things get a little rough, room gets a little quiet and suddenly they all look to the girl with the 40-DD LONGS to get the party started. I only know 6 jokes, people, all of them–bizarrely, about horses. There’s only so many times I can tell my stand-by Horse walks into the bar, bartender says ‘why the long face?’ before people say I’m losing my game.

When I lose 15 pounds:
I will not be expected to start every conversation with a hilarious story about a juice cleanse.
I will not have to google “Rebel Wilson” in the Chili’s bathroom after a comparison has been bandied about.
I will be thin and funny, which will make me ironic.
I won’t be expected to write any more essays entitled The Key to Being Happy (hint: it’s being thin).

Then: I will be happy.
About the author: Nicole Jankowski is a mom of four kids and two step-kids. a full-time student and sometimes funny fat girl at parties. She likes vintage dresses and eavesdropping on strangers. She learned at an early age that humorously pointing out her weaknesses (like the fact she writes poetry and has cankles) was a smart move. Find her at momof4istired.blogspot.com.


Wannabe's are Guest Authors to BLUNTmoms. They might be one-hit wonders, or share a variety of posts with us. They "may" share their names with you, or they might write as "anonymous" but either way, they are sharing their stories and their opinions on our site, and for that we are grateful.


  1. The sad part about my “tight underwear” is that it simply smooths my fat rolls into one bulging mound. Then people ask me if I’m pregnant.

    • Agreed. And when I wear said “tight underwear” under slacks, I have to decide ‘mound up’? or ‘mound down’ under the waistband.

  2. Is it wrong that I wanted someone to comment that it’s really hard to find size 2 underwear in Target, too? Just so I could revel in the subsequent throw down?

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