“Look, they have figs!” I exclaimed as we were checking out at the Farmer’s Market. My friend looked at the shriveled up fruit dubiously and flatly refused to try one. The thing about figs, is that they’re not ripe until they look like the gum you stepped on in the Wal-Mart parking lot. These figs were at their mushy peak of perfection.

Now, whenever I open the refrigerator door, the figs seem to be attempting to break out of their plastic basket by oozing through the cracks. I know they’re sweet and delicious, but I just can’t bring myself to pick one up. They remind me too much of the time I tried to wear sandals that laced up my ankles. Doughy mounds of ankle fat were straining the structural integrity of the leather thong.

Maybe I had figs on my mind, but last night I dreamt that I was on a TV game show. As I was cheering wildly about winning an Amana Radarange, I looked up to see mirrors on the ceiling. To my horror, I realized that I had a wattle. I’m talking full on neck cleavage. Skin was bouncing in multiple directions as I clapped. I woke up in a cold sweat, relieved to find that my neck was not laying on the pillow next to me.

This is a source of concern for me, because I love it when my husband nibbles on my neck. I don’t really want him to have pieces of it stuck between his teeth. You’d think I’d be worrying about the frown line that doesn’t go away when I stop frowning, or the age spots engaged in continental drift, merging into one huge Pangea of olditude. No, I’m concerned that one of these days, I’m going to jump and my neck will give a wicked left hook to my chin. Try explaining that when you come to.

I know that people are starving in Outer Slobonia, but the figs had to go. I’ll just stick to firm fruits in the future. Is that cauliflower looking at my thighs?