Contractual Obligations

I make a point of entering into very few contracts, or situations whereby I'm somewhat obligated to perform.  I find that I manage to keep most folks happy and my "free time" maximized by moving through the world with soft expectations and so far everyone seems fine with that. 

I have made a few exceptions, and they continue to remind me that if something seems too good to be true, it really probably is. and it'll probably end up causing me pain in the end...

My first major contract began when I was 12 years old and in negotiations with my father for my first pony.  Mind you I was a horse-crazy, pony-obsessed girl and only now do I realize what a strong negotiating position my dad held.  My 12 year old self would have easily agreed to a life of servitude, household chores and any other distasteful compensation if he would just give me that god damn adorable pony.

In exchange for the pony, Dad required only three promises in exchange for the pony and none of them had anything to do with me ending up like Cinderella... I was convinced that my father had foolishly squandered his opportunity and that I was basically getting my pony for free. 

All I had to swear to was:

1) No French kissing until high school.
2) No sex until College
3) Grandchildren by 30.

I'm not sure that they have clocks capable of recording the nearly nonexistent amount of time that passed before I shouted "YES!" and fetched my promised pony, but as far as I was concerned, I hit the jackpot.  Big time.

For one thing, boys were gross (and even if they weren't I had no intention of french kissing anything. ever).
Secondly, who needs sex when you have a pony (I consider this statement to still be relevant).
And lastly, who turns THIRTY.  I mean really, I'm pretty sure that at the time, I considered 30 to be the age at which you have one foot in the grave... so who cares if I'm popping out kids by then anyway.

The moral of the story is that, my dad is a sneaky, sneaky man and only now am I realizing the consequences of such an agreement - as I am now nearing 30, do not feel as though one foot is in the grave yet, and definitely haven't produced any of the required grandchildren.  I give my dad a lot of credit for his long term planning and general cunning nature, and also blame him for my skepticism in making contractual agreements.

Flash forward several years and I unwittingly entered into another one.  The Boy has an obnoxious ability to maintain serious amounts of lean muscle mass on not much more than whiskey, chewy sprees, cheddar, ramen and pepperoni.  Every once in a while I get on a soap box and bitch that its not fair, but I usually muzzle myself fairly quickly since his good fortune does me no harm and who am I to complain if he stays pretty and useful for lifting things without hours and hours in a gym?

Realistically, my only worry is that at some unforeseen point The Boy's magic metabolism will slam to a stop, and the mysteriously prominent abs will fade away...

Enter Contract #2 - The Boy promises to maintain his stomach definition if I promise to never let that pretty line on my leg (you know the one between your quad and hamstring that makes you look shapely and athletic?) fade away under triple-cream cheeses and cured meat plates.

EASY.  even at my worst (freshman 15.. err. 30..) my legs looked great.  My body has proven that it will find REALLY odd places to stick excess cheese/fat/grease before it attaches it to my legs.  Its resulted in some strange shapes, and difficultly buying jeans, but ultimately the leg-line has always survived.

Until now.

A few weeks ago I crossed my legs while out for drinks (not helping the situation, I know) only to realize that the leg crossing, which usually exaggerates the leg-line, failed to produce even a hint of quad, or hamstring underneath my (mostly) tan and (somewhat) smooth skin. 

CRAP.

Further inspection later revealed that some cellulite is beginning to show itself which has NEVER, EVER EVER even thought to show its ugly dimply head anywhere near my (relatively) skinny stick legs.

CRAP CRAP CRAP.

so its been lots of cardio and lots of lunges and lots of sprints on the bike.  I will tolerate a squishy stomach, I will even tolerate losing nicely defined arms, but I REFUSE to lose my leg-line, it not for my self esteem then definitely as my collateral regarding The Boy's lovely stomach.

So the legs are getting attacked.  They hurtt, there is pain, and once again these stupid effing contracts are turning out to be more work on my part than I would have ever thought....

                                                   

The stick legs --------------------->

(Pictured here in an early 2007 heyday)

 They will return.