Consistency

Is the hobgoblin of little minds.

It is also the way to little waists.

Which is why I am not in possession of a little waist or anything that could reasonably be considered a facsimile thereof.

In fact, I have no waist at all. I am all blob, all boob and hip and jiggle. My waist has disappeared for parts unknown leaving no note, no flowers, no nothing. Somebody issue an all-points-bulletin. One 24-inch waist, last seen heading south on I-95 in a 1967 candy apple red Mustang convertible.