If my boobs were small and I was skinny, I would eat cake every day for breakfast and lunch. Sometimes frosting, sometimes not, but always cake.
At night, I would choose between lasagna and pizza. Real lasagna with real cheese or pizza with the perfect amount of crust and a sauce that wasn’t too sweet.
I wouldn’t make dinner because I’m a horrible cook. Someone would make it for me, or I’d find a great little Italian restaurant. They would have a round black table toward the back window which would be my “usual” table. On the days I wasn’t up for being around people, they would deliver.
To eat one or the other every night for the rest of my life, they would need to be the best damn lasagna and pizza ever. Mushrooms on the pizza. Cooked, not raw or fresh.
In fact, If I wore those tiny bralettes and my grandmother used to say I was “straight up and down, almost like a boy,” I would never eat anything raw or fresh ever again.
I suppose I would still drink water because soda makes my teeth hurt and milk… who really knows where that comes from anymore. So, water and hot tea, those would be my drinks.
The cakes, I would bake myself. Lots of cake on mismatched antique glass stands with frosting flowers and filling. Rasberry and chocolate, meringue and fresh fruit.
Okay, fresh fruit would be the only exception to the “fresh” rule because I do love berries and peaches.
Since cake is hard to carry, on the days I was out and about I would eat cookies. Animal crackers and homemade cookies, or the occasional graham cracker. Animals and grahams would come from a box.
I think I’d like a big sling bag to carry my stuff. My notebook, my lip balm, and my cookies. I’d also like a long flowy, colorful skirt and a fabulously soft tank top with maybe a small beaded owl on it or something like that.
I would keep a light sweater, orange, in my sling bag for when I went into the museums. Same outfit, maybe two or three different colors, but pretty much the same setup every day because I’d have my mind on other things.
All day, every day, museums and libraries. Painted toes and Birkenstocks.
If my boobs were small and I was a slight minute of a thing, I would carry tissues in my bag and bring a large fold up hat so that the sun would keep me warm, but stay off my face. I’d always have a book and never, ever set foot in a gym or sweat at all for that matter.
And if toward the end of my life, my heart was pissed I hadn’t worked it into a fine healthy organ or my skinny body had no muscle tone and sagged, so be it.
I would sit out on the patio of my apartment, with a big ring on every finger. Watch the sun rise over the gigantic oak trees in the park across the street, and wipe the cake crumbs from the corners of my mouth with a yellow cloth napkin.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Dreamy.