A Letter to Your Fat Belly From Your Bitchy Great-Great-Great-Aunt Irma


You’re nearing 60, and it’s been a good run. You have a husband you’ve been married to for almost 40 years, you’re a grandparent, you’re retired.

Life is on a steady, low-key kind of ride.

The golden years.

You look in the mirror, and you no longer evaluate or poke or prod.

You just are.

You have weight in places your mom did, or maybe your dad. Or maybe your aunt Betty.

It’s how your family all looks, if you peek at those old photo albums:

Bigger bellies, thin legs. Big smiles. Laughing, usually.

People that loved hard, enjoyed life.

It doesn’t seem like you should be old yet. Sometimes you wonder how time has gone so fast.

And how did you suddenly become aunt Betty, you wonder.

An obese old person with pre-diabetes and sore feet? Sure, maybe you weigh more than you used to, but that’s just how aging goes.…


Well, I’m not one to judge. But here’s a letter to your belly, from Betty’s great-great aunt Irma:

Please note: the following foul language and language in general is not historically accurate. But the attitude probably is.

Dear fat, lazy-ass beeyatch of the year 2019,

You’re not only fat and lazy, you’re eating all the wrong fucking shit.

Take off that GMO flour-coated apron and put down your spoon of cookie dough and listen to me.

We used to eat SOME bread, yes, but not like you do:

Like it’s your muthafuggin JOB.

First of all — eating immediately upon rolling out of your sleep number bed? Are you fucking kidding me?

Put down that toaster strudel and go walk for 5 miles. Milk a few cows or reel in some nets full of fish and clean those fish before sunrise. And when you’re done with some real work, several hours later — have some smoked salmon and cucumber, and maybe (once or twice a week) a slice of rye bread.

And after dinner, stop stuffing your face with fake food from plastic bags.

Actually, just stop eating after dinner.

They’re calling it “intermittent fasting,” now.

We called it eating.

And, coffee. That’s cool.

But that white shit you call “creamer” is full of other shit.

Down the drain, babe. POUR IT DOWN.


W. T. F!

Put that shit down, sugar addict!

Ohhhhhhh, you have high blood sugar and pre-diabetes?


You blame your genes??

Blame that orange juice insulin spike, ya dumb blonde (yeah, I can call you that, I’m one, too).

Eat some bacon. Fish. Turkey.

VEGETABLES, how ‘bout?

Eat some real butter, and for FUCK’S sake throw away that canister of chemicals.

I, for one, CAN believe it’s not butter.

Eat some beef (but please, eat an animal that’s been fed what it’s supposed to eat).

Again, put down the bread.

They’re calling it “low carb.”

We called it “food.”

And, your husband. That roomy polo shirt and cargo shorts aren’t hiding a thing. He’s packing away a few too many pounds, too.

You’re both on your way to high medical costs, even sorer feet, a wheelchair ramp to your door, and early death.

Clean it up, ya idiots.


(Your lean, mean ancestor that only died young because, cholera, but would have lived until 102, otherwise.)

— Irma

Agnostic. Cancer survivor. Divorce survivor. Proud single mom. Freelance designer + illustrator. Stubborn optimist. Finding my new path.

Agnostic. Cancer survivor. Divorce survivor. Proud single mom. Freelance designer + illustrator. Stubborn optimist. Finding my new path.