I have an uncle named Bubba, and it's a pretty accurate moniker. Okay, his real name is John, but no one calls him that except his wife. This is a man who processes (what a lovely euphemism) deer in my grandparents' side yard - and they live on Main Street. I have seen him eat a piece of ham after a dog got a taste of it. He wears camo baseball caps.
And yesterday he told my grandmother that I'm looking better. Color me flabbergasted.
Even armed with that knowledge, I've felt so flabby and gross today. I let go and enjoyed the holidays, and now it seems monstrously obvious. Love handles you could rest a book on. At least that's now I feel.
This doesn't make sense.