Mother Tucker

Remember when you were a kid, how excited you were to be in a photo? You enthusiastically jumped in, front and center! “Cheese!”

Ah, the innocence of youth.

But now that we are all older and wiser, this does NOT happen. Sure, we still smile and say “Cheese” (unless we’re lactose intolerant), but front and center? 

No way, Jose.

It was probably about 10 years ago when I saw myself in a group photo, FRONT AND CENTER. 


Now, this shouldn’t be surprising because, with each passing year, the camera adds several pounds.

C + ↑y = ↑p

It’s just math, people.

Now that I was aware of this scary math, I decided to do something about it.

(No, I did not go on a diet.)

The next time I took a group picture, I subtly slid behind the person next to me, and Voila! I looked 10 pounds lighter.

It’s called “tucking,” and tucking will take off a good 10, 20, 50 pounds.

T= -p

Again, math.

So, now every time I take a picture, I tuck.

Of course, in order to be a tucker (or in my case, a Mother Tucker), there must be a “tuckee.”

And that’s where my husband, Steve, comes in.

He knows when I take a picture, he must immediately take his place in front of me, so that I can slither behind until I’m practically non-existent.

“Hey, why do I look so huge and you look so tiny?” He sighed, scrutinizing a recent photo.

I shrugged. “Hmm, that’s weird.”

However, Steve can’t complain because it’s in our vows. After loving and before cherishing, there was definitely talk of tucking. 

Sorry, men, I know this seems sexist, but it’s your job.

(Except for our friends, Linda and Bill. Bill is the tucker in that relationship.)

I don’t know what kind of crazy vows they took. 

And it’s not just Steve who acts as my tuckee.

My whole family knows when it’s picture time, this mother be tuckin’!

Unfortunately, some people are getting tired of my antics.

“Why do you always get to be the tucker?” my friend Lorraine asked recently.

“Well, only one of us can tuck at a time,” I explained as I nestled behind her. “How about I tuck this picture, and then you can tuck in the next?” 

(Side note: There was no next picture.)

Of course, even when I tuck, I’m not always pleased with the picture. (Again, camera’s fault.)

However, I’ve learned, the more I tuck and the farther I am from the camera, the better I look.

T + D = F

(D = Distance. F, of course, stands for Fabulous.)

Was I the only one who paid attention in math?

I’ve gotten to the point where I’m so good at tucking that you can’t even see my body anymore. 

I’m merely a speck in the upper righthand corner.

Basically, a floating head. 

A fabulous floating head.

My Above Average Colon is available on Amazon in paperback or kindle formats  

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