I wish I were a cat. A domesticated one with indoor/outdoor privileges and no children in the house. I wish I were one of my cats.

I'm pretty sure that cats don't worry about work and the future and one's body suddenly seeming lumpier than usual. A cat might even luxuriate in their body being lumpier. It might strike them as a funny thing to bathe.

Mine, though--my real, live body, is lumpier in a way that I find very much un-luxuriating. (Surely this is not a word, but you know what I mean.) Is it that I am nearing 30? Or is it that I am on the Katrina-diet, which generally means bad food and lots of booze? Will I have to cut out margaritas? (Oh, I do not want to give up margaritas!) Maybe it's that I am partnered with a lean and spry thing (Simon) whose appetite mirrors mine and whose metabolism is an insatiable beast. (Simon is the only person I know who can eat three bowls of cereal at three a.m. and not pay for it.) More importantly, though, why do I CARE?

So a tee-tiny bikini arrived in the mail today to mock me. Not only does it barely cover my nipples, it is also an extra-large. So I gave Gunnar Peterson 20 on my Core Secrets space ball. Soon, though, it became un-fun. And then there was Simon in our back yard, swinging his tennis racket, jumping his rope, and generally being sweaty and active. It broke my will, so I gave up and checked my email. Oh, how I love email.

No--this entry has nothing to do with my post-Katrina New Orleans. There still are all kinds of important things to worry about in my Post-K New Orleans, sure. Like work. And the future. But for one blessed moment I will wallow in vanity and self-pity. I will remember these small concerns that were, once upon a time, a Big Deal to me. Sigh.

Oh, to be a cat!