Honey, I’m so glad you’re home and I can’t wait to hear the censored version of your first semester at college, remember the one where no underage drinking or premarital sex took place, but why don’t you tell me while we go for a quick six-mile jog?
When your father and I picked you up from the airport, I assumed your fun, new, winter sweater was the cause of your added girth. Your father told me not to worry, that you were a growing girl and gaining a few pounds your freshman year was nothing to worry about, but he doesn’t understand what it’s like for us women.
You know I think you’re perfect just the way you are, but in life there is always room for improvement…and in your case that room is clearly needed in your jeans, you have what I hear is called a bit of a muffin top situation dear.
These are going to be the best four years of your life, and I don’t want you to miss out on all the fun things you won’t be able to do if it looks like there’s half a dozen hamburger buns in your oven. So why don’t you put down that third slice of pizza honey and pick up those weights because no one wants to do body shots off someone who could hide the glass in her belly button.
You definitely shouldn’t lose weight because society is telling you to conform to unrealistic expectations; you should do it because I’m telling you to conform to them. I’m your mother, and I know best. When I ask if you really need to eat that second slice of pumpkin pie, it’s not because I’m judging you, it’s because I’ve already judged you and determined that you shouldn’t.
I didn’t get voted Omega Chi Sweetheart three years running by drinking like the washed-up fraternity brothers you’re starting to resemble, I did it by adhering to a strict vodka and lettuce diet and throwing up between sessions on the elliptical.
I hope you realize the moratorium I’m putting on your caloric intake stems from motherly concern, not merely motherly disgust. You are smart and talented and you should be confident in who you are, but think about how many more people you’d convince to feel the same if you looked like that Miley Cyrus you used to adore instead of Melissa McCarthy. Just look at that Miley, she may be a little crazy, but she’s also crazy hot—how else do you think she pulls off underwear as pants?
Just think of me as your thinspirational life coach for the next three weeks. Before I build you up, however, I’m going to tear you down, ideally by starving you until you’re about to faint, at which point I will offer you a cube of cheese and ice water.
You’re my baby girl and your happiness is at the top of my priority list…right after having a daughter who makes emaciation look chic.
Originally published: Dec 2013