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I woke up this morning and got on the scale … and I immediately got on the phone and called my eye doctor. Something was definitely wrong with my vision because the number on the scale was not one hundred. I knew that it had to be either my vision going bad or the battery needed to be changed in the scale. Something was not right, and I was going to get to the bottom of it.


Now that I’m thinking of it, I better get on the horn and call the Gap too. I need to let them know that their product-sizing department screwed up last month. My new low-rise boot cuts should have a “size four” on the tag … and they don’t.


I’m pretty confident it’s supposed to say a four because of the twenty binkie stair climbs I made over the weekend. I also know the scale should read one hundred because of the seventy-five squats I do on a nightly basis—lifting babies into the crib and out of the crib, into the highchair and out of the highchair, onto the potty and off of the potty, onto the changing table and off of the changing table, into the van and out of the van, into the shopping cart and out of the shopping cart, into the stroller and out of the stroller, down on the floor to play and up from the floor, into the bathtub and out of the bathtub.


You see, I know I’m right! Every morning I should see one hundred between my hot pink toes, and every Saturday I should see a number four right above my tush.


Hmmm … you know, I think I need to call Victoria’s Secret. They need to know that my “A” should really be a “C.”

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