I am currently having an argument with my thighs. They didn’t use to irritate me, but lately, they’ve been on my last nerve.
I recently came to the conclusion that, contrary to my popular belief, everyone I know had not stealthily outfitted their cameras with a wide-angle and extra chin lens just for me.
Nor had I been able to locate the “shrink pants to cut off circulation” option on our dryer. The day I realized I had nothing to wear if I still planned to breathe was a daunting one indeed.
It’s embarrassing to admit, but I suffer from high self-esteem. I thought I was pretty cute most of the time. You are not supposed to say that out loud. Most women will die before they might admit they think of themselves as passably more attractive than your average wildebeest.
“Who me? Oh no, I’m a MESS” they say. Even supermodels appear duty bound to insist they were ugly ducklings once. I’m not sure what we are supposed to say to that.
“Well thank goodness you grew out of that so parading around in your underwear could pay off!” just seems kind of rude.
I honestly didn’t take note of my weight gain for a very long time. In small ways, certainly, but overall I felt just fine.
It is a blessing to be married to a man who, if you ask “honey do these pants make me look big?” will be immediately struck blind, deaf and mute.
Faced with such an unfathomable question he will simply cock his head like the dog trying to factor calculus, disavow any knowledge of “fat,” the possible existence of “pants” and/or the English language, and refuse to answer on the grounds that he may incriminate himself.
Mr. Wonderful engages in a sort of “don’t ask, don’t tell, and for goodness sakes if she asks anything tricky I think I’m needed in the yard right NOW.”
Then came the fateful moment when I caught a glimpse of a woman on video and thought, momentarily “who is that?” before realizing — startled — that “she” was me.
I had failed to recognize myself. Worse, I didn’t feel like myself anymore. I felt weak and tired and kind of cranky much of the time.
I’ve reached a certain age and that age is when every doughnut I enjoyed in childhood back when I thought I could eat “anything I want and not gain a pound” came back to bite me in the, well, caboose.
All that sticky, sweet salty goodness I had enjoyed for four plus more decades was, in fact, just lying in wait. It was like all that fat that had slid off earlier was, in fact, on layaway.
It’s a daunting moment when you realize the Fudgesicle you enjoyed when you were 9 probably never really went away.
At this point in time I am eating (more) healthfully, (less) unhealthy food, and living by the mantra that I really can eat everything. I just can’t eat it all the time.
Like most people I wanted results without actually having to do anything. As it turns out this is almost impossible. I ordered the salad with the dressing on the side … why am I not a size two already?
Then I remember that the last time I wore a two I probably was 2, and decide to get more realistic. I am not aiming to compete with any current or former swimsuit models, I just want to be able to wear something from my closet beyond the so-called yoga pants that have never seen a yoga mat in their life.
I don’t think zippers are too much to ask.
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