Alas I have no junk in my trunk, nor no lovely lady lumps.

Oh Black Eyed Peas, how I wish I could sing your pithy song with you:

What you gon' do with all that junk?
All that junk inside your trunk?
I'ma get, get, get, get, you drunk,
Get you love drunk off my hump.
My hump, my hump, my hump, my hump, my hump,
My hump, my hump, my hump, my lovely little lumps (Check it out)

But I fear my days of a junk filled trunk are over. (sigh) Two months out of hospital and my trunk is still as flat as a teenage boy's.  Actually, I'm sad to say, I also appear to have acquired the chest of a teenage boy.  20 years later and my high school nickname of 'Sufboard' is apt once more.  Oh miniscule mammaries, our glory days were so short.  Our cup no longer runneth over, it is, I fear, empty. I am officially sans, humps, lumps and junk.

My abnormally junkless trunk is quite the conversation starter:

"You've got no bum!", from my tactful cardiologist
"God. There's nothing there!", from a caring nurse.
"Wow it's really gone", following a sad attempted arse grab from Mr Grumpy.
"It's gone!", thank you sweet physio.

And then, there was the photo.  Look away now, for fear of being overcome with rennui.

My junkless trunk displayed in all it's full length glory (ironically in the kitchen, and about a kilo heavier than present).  What is left of my trunk was reduced to a sobbing pool of flat melancholy after this unmistakable visual proof.  Poor, sad, little trunk.

Alas, I just can't seem to gain back the weight I've lost over the last few months.  And I've tried.  I really have.  I've followed the dietician's instructions.  I tried the supplement drinks, with their vomit inducing thick texture.  (Fake strawberry flavour is an abomination, and the creator should have their testicles repeatedly waxed by an inept, burly guy named Tiny, who sweats like he's coming off a three day bender).  But they just made me ill and run to the loo.  I was perplexed, as was my dietitian.  Then a timely little article came up on a forum, and I had a moment of enlightenment.  Over 50% of people who consume hospital grade meal replacement/supplements for even a couple of weeks, end up with diarrhoea as they are high in FODMAPs.  Brilliant.  Because that's just what I need.  Ah Universe, you are a cruel and heartless cow.

I am now on a high calorie, dietician recommended, diet.  Whereby I must eat ice-cream and other high calorie foods. And if I must, I must.  Bring on the pizza.  Bring on the chocolate.  Bring on the cakes.  Smoother me in your delightful, health improving, sugar and fat laden, bounty.  I will take my medicine.  I will even purchase a bigger dosette box.  For I fear that no matter how I fold that piece of medicinal cheesy crust meatlovers, it's not going to fit in that tiny plastic hole.  And still I cannot gain.

It seems I must resign myself to my new 'svelte' body.  For my guts decided to make itself comfortable and I continue to consume a rainforest worth of toilet paper each day.  A quick check of the scales before typing tells me I have reached the stellar weight of 53kgs.  Woo Hoo!  I refuse to believe that my gain could really be the result of the litre of water I just downed.  Or that I will most likely pee out that extra weight in the next half hour.  As far as my delusional mind is concerned I have gained, and I'm sticking with that.  Reality has no place in my current health regimen.

Maybe this is all a case of, "careful what you wish for".  For the past few years I have lamented my weight gain thanks to medications, sloth-like metabolism, and lack of exercise.  I had cursed Bob for my Texas-sized muffin top and the transformation of my saddlebags into turn of the century travelling trunks.  And my luscious love handles? Well they clearly indicated that I had a lot of love to give.  And now?  Now my body looks like it belongs in The Corpse Bride. Skeletal, pasty, mottled-skin and poking bones.  Sexy No?

Now whilst a strategically placed push up bra may help to give me the illusion of lovely lady lumps in the front, my trunk remains problematic, or is it?  Did you know there are multiple sites dedicated to butt enhancers?  The things you learn whilst surfing the internet at 3am.  Who says insomnia is all bad?  My personal favourite is this one.  How can you not love a site whose tagline is "Our duty is your booty!".  Little did I know I was suffering from "flat butt syndrome".  "OMG!"  I hear you cry.  I know, I was shocked too.  Must make sure to add that to my list of diagnoses.  Thankfully, treatment is available and I can be "Instantly transform [my] boyish figure into a feminine body".  Go science!

Now to work out the look I'm going for.  Should I go for a Brazillian or Silicon Pop Up?

(image from here)

So, excuse me whilst I grab my bucket of cookies and cream and chug down a super, triple shot mocha latte with extra cream and shot of lard.  Now, do I want my trunk to be  "Unbuttleivable", or "Buttoholic"?  Decisions, decisions.

Cheers
Michelle:)