Do you get fries with that shake?

 

No, honey, but you do get a shake with the fries.  You get a little wiggle when you walk with the hamburger, and a jiggle with the bun, mayo, Swiss cheese and bacon on the side. Working as a restaurant critic has certainly put a little bounce into my step, but it's a rolling rhythm with a lot of blues.

 

The fat life's a bitch and then you diet.  Every morning I roll over in bed, the aftershock of my posterior just a fraction of a second behind the rest of me, and think:  Okay, enough, already.  No bread.  No butter.  No starch, No sugar.  No cashew nuts.  No olives,  Remember, you don't even like olives.  And definitely no fags.

 

I make elaborate dietary rules with the zeal of a Rabbinical scholar and then spend hours looking for loopholes:  No drinking.  Well, no drinking at lunch. Unless there's champagne.  But positively no wine - unless it's a fine red, or a white burgundy. And then only one glass.  Or maybe one each if it's terribly rude to refuse.

 

But whatever I decide my resolve always wobbles.  Despite promising to leave half of everything on my plate, I hear years of my mother's subliminal conditioning telling me to clean it.  Whatever happened to all those teenage food fads?  When did I stop being a meal-skipping vegetarian who hated rice?

 

However, curves do have their compensations. My hips may sway to the syncopation of my beta-blocked heart but though I'm breathless, I'm not breastless.  After years in training bra hell, at last I've reached the final with something worth getting off my chest. And though modest, my cleavage still acts as a reliable decoy for everything else further south.

 

Rather than love handles, I have foot holds with rest areas and scenic outposts.  This, then, is why they call it a balcony bra.  But I've discovered that the reason women take refuge in serious underwiring is really nothing to do with display.  What you are really trying to do is strap the damn things down.  After forty and without silicone, no one tells you that they dance to the beat of a different drum. They could star in their very own Gap advert.  But while jumping, jiving teenagers have their own appeal, you do kind of want your breasts to stay exactly where you put them.  I know, I know, the answer is simple - lose weight, eat less, drink water, exercise.  But, sadly, I am a woman of large appetites.