Bumps...

I lean into the mirror to examine the texture of my skin. It reads like brail, revealing neglect. Not pimples, but risen redness, taught, oily and dry all in the same moment. My Dad tells me that he knows how I am actually doing by looking at my skin. The transformation begins above my temples. Sneaky bumps on the sly, pitter-patter down my cheekbones, consuming my forehead, and never neglecting to kiss my chin. One bump for Starbucks, a smatter from the sun, another for that extra glass of chardonnay, a constellation for short nights of sleep, and evenings when I was too tired to wash before I rested. My skin speaks the truth…

Bumps are never good, since they either refer to things too small, or others to large. Due to the mysterious nature of this audience, I won’t focus on the bumps I wish were lumps or even humps.

There is, however, one bump that plagues all women. Maybe it is better referred to as a landmark, as it is the spot all women eyes immediately focus when standing naked in the mirror. It is that space below the navel, that despite hours of cardio, slim fast shakes, and voodoo pills from Rite-Aid, will not subside. I am told that because I am a woman and will have children someday, this bump is necessary. It is my kangaroo pouch. Shape magazine says it increases in size due to Cortisol expenditure, and thus stress is a trigger. If that’s the case, I am going to need a sling in the near future.

In a perfect world, this bump would be sexy. Women would get implants, and have bump envy. Padded panties would be a top seller at Victoria’s Secret, and all the stars would wear designer jeans to accentuate their muffin tops.

But for now, bumps are out. I suppose one can always dream.