She's Perfectly Coated. I'm Old, Fat, and Bloated

Dear Perfect-Coated One,



The time has come for us to say a fond farewell.



Until September at least.



For the dawn of summer means that you will no longer stand outside your picket fence each weekday morning, poised and ready to shoo your little darlings onto the school bus.



It also means that I no longer will get stuck behind said school bus on my way to work, leaving me no choice but to observe your perfect family unit in action.

No longer will you need to don a coat. . . a sweater. . . or perfect pair of shoes. . . at that ungodly hour of the morning.

And no longer will I - still sweating after having waged a colossal battle with my own wardrobe malfunctions - need to lay my eyes on you.


No longer will your your sweaters. . . or your shoes. . . or your long blond hair be on display for all to see.

And no longer will I be living my life in sin . . . . coveting my neighbor's wife's goods.




Oh. . . and one last thing. . . I thank the good Lord that your perfect children don't have to go to summer school because I don't think I could bear the turmoil of seeing you in a bikini each morning. . .

Until September, I remain. . .

p.s. If you'd like to see more correspondence, skip on over to Kat's and read some other fab Dear So and So's. . .