Rhymes, Rants & Accolades from North Central BC

THE INCREDIBLE BULK

circa 1975 Sense and Nonsense

“I really should lose some weight,” I make that statement regularly, hoping desperately that some kind soul will contradict me…

If I am lucky a friend will gush, “ Oh, no, you’re just right!” I take that to mean I am only a few pounds past the critical stage.

Or else someone will say, “You’re big-boned” I translate that into: You have just passed ‘pleasingly plump’ and are rapidly approaching ‘fat.’

Lately I’ve been receiving no responses whatever. Even my dearest friends ignore my leading remark and comment tactfully on the weather or some other “safe” subject.

I should visit my father for an honest opinion. When he tells me I “look healthy” I know I am in trouble!

I had a dream the other night. In my dream I had been exposed to gamma (and gampa?) radiation rays. An overdose of Mr. Klean combined with my new “drier than dry” deodorant had triggered a startling chemical reaction….

Whenever I threw a temper tantrum (and what housewife and mother doesn’t?) the forces inside of me were released to create a new me. I became a not-so-jolly green giant of tremendous proportions. (At least 44D and that was just my shoe size!) My hair became even more unruly than it already is and my teeth grew into jagged fangs.

I became – The (shudder) Incredible Bulk.

In my dream I was at the breakfast table that it happened. I sidled up to my husband and whined, “Please don’t make me angry. I’m not pretty when I’m angry…”

He muttered something from behind his newspaper. It sounded like, “Yourcoffeetastesawful.”

I felt myself growing larger as I stumbled headlong into the hallway. My Living Bra screamed in agony…then shuddered and died while I lay face-down on the floor. The sleeves split and fell off my dress exposing bulging green muscles. I had become – The Incredible Bulk.

Our teenage daughters ambled past on their early morning trek from the bathroom to the refrigerator. I could hear them whisper,

“Do you suppose Mom is pregnant?” queried one. “Maybe we should phone a doctor – she’s large enough to be on the delivery table right now!”

“If she’s going to have a baby,” giggled the other, “I think it’s more of a job for Search and Rescue!.”

“She’s too old to be pregnant,” surmised the first. “She must be at least thirty-five. I hear when women get that old they go through something called menopause.”

“Men…opause?  That explains those muscles…that famous boxer Muhammed Ali, would envy her biceps.”

“He’s coloured isn’t he…?  I’ll bet he isn’t nearly as coloured as mom is!” (giggle, giggle)

I lurched to my feet and contorted my face in fury. I sneered menacingly at my daughters. They edged into the kitchen.

The eldest was diplomatic. “That green make-up is definitely you, Mom. But don’t you think you were a bit heavy-handed with it? The Avon Lady said eye-shadow was just for around the eyes…”

I growled horribly and flung the refrigerator across the room. My husband looked up from his newspaper and mumbled, “Justlikeawoman…alwaysrearrangingthefurniture”

When I awoke I sleepily remarked to my husband, “I really should lose some weight….”

“Don’t be silly,” he answered. “You just….look healthy.”

He’d best not repeat that or I may throw the refrigerator at him!

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