If I had a chisel, I'd build myself a waist.

Once upon a time, I had one-- a nice cinched in circular wonder that some boys liked to wrap their hands around. Now, don't be naughty. I had a waist-- a 24-inch waist to be exact-- a size 4 with room for a baked potato.
Then one day I thought I'd get happy. You see, happiness has this grand way of eating away at your waist. For some people, happiness is the pill to make them forget all about eating. For others, it's a cause for celebratory whipped cream kisses and a big old piece of chocolate cake with two spoons.
When I met my husband I was so happy, I made graham cracker and frosting sandwiches and put them in the freezer. The frosting was homemade-- vanilla, a stick of salty butter and two to three cups of powdered sugar. The graham crackers were honeymade and ready for a healthy tablespoon or two of the rich, buttery frosting.
I'd pile them up on a plate in a swirl pattern, stacking them so they looked like modern architecture, and then we'd read to each other and eat them. I must have eaten 15 pounds of butter while lounging on my husband's lap and listening to him read "The Brothers Kincade"and "A River Runs Through it." We explored fly fishing while we licked frosting from around the corners of the crackers, working our way down the stacks to the bottom of the plate.
And at the bottom, I noticed I'd lost half my waist.
I banished my shirts to the outside of my pants. The style took and the next thing I knew motherhood was the fashion of the day.
I traded the pants for a sack sailor dress and waited for my first born-- who took what was left of my waist with her when she arrived.
I'd like it back-- the little thief. She's a blonde 7-year-old with eyes too big and blue for her own good-- too smart.
If she had my waist, she'd know what to do with it- thank goodness she's only 7 going on 13 and not 13 going on 25.
Her waist will spell trouble ahead.
I can see it by the way she winks at the boys and gets them to play. The wrinkles in the corners of her mouth when she smiles, the crinkle in her nose when she gets her way.
She gives me that damned smile everyday as I look for a full coverage T-shirt and grunt at the thought of wearing low rise jeans in public.
She'll always be my little thief.
There really is no excuse for me allowing her to keep it. In seven years, you'd think I would have found some way to pry it from her fingers. But she's got two other sisters to help her hold on-- you know a mother cannot be prettier than her children.
If I had a chisel, I'd build myself a waist.
I tried at the gym-- two hours a day, seven days a week until I found my waist, went on a cruise and it jumped overboard.
This time I'd know what to do with it. I'm nine years older than when her daddy and I first met, and I've learned a few things about men.
You don't need to be so happy to keep them. You don't need to eat the frosting and whipped cream kisses. But it sure is fun-- it's the magic that jumpstarts your heart.
I've learned that in the long run if a man loves you and you lose your waist in the checkout stand at Wal-Mart, you will miss it more than him. A waist is a small thing in the world of a man, but to a woman it can mean the difference between a pair of pants staying or sliding down your ass.
If I had a waist, I'd know how to use it. I'd wear halter tops and silhouette enhancing slinky dresses-- and then I'd see what magic I could conjure up in the room.
Would my waist entice my husband into staying home more and forgetting about his fishing trips?
Would my waist be so intimidating, I'd be excused from the next parent-teacher conference?
Would my waist get me help in a department store full of teeny boppers?
Probably not because my waist comes complete with a set of muddy footprints just above the belt loop-- and really, who can take a waist seriously when there is mud of the kiddish variety involved.
Still a waist is a terrible thing to waste. (sorry I couldn't help it-- I know that is just terrible).