When we first moved to New Orleans I was svelte.
Okay- maybe not ‘svelte’ but not 20 lbs of grilled oysters on each hip heavy.
Anywho, a few months ago our soon to be daughter-n-law and her lovely yoga-body mother came in for a pre-wedding trip (They are getting married here! SCORE!).
We went Wedding dress shopping.
It was a perfect afternoon: soft music, champagne, credit cards being melted.
Lauren found her dress. She looked like a … she’s 25. ‘Nuff said.
Lynn found her dress. She looked like a … Pungu Mayurasana master.
I tried on dresses too! It was a ‘Girl’s Day”!
I poured myself into a gorgeous green sequined single-shouldered gown with deep back dip, fitted bodice, and a peek-a-boo De’colletage slit (that should have accentuated my
delusions curves ) swept the curtains aside (que: muzac) stepped out with a flourish, turned to the large gold gilt floor to ceiling mirror, and saw a … Holy-Shit-who-are-you-with-the-beignets-stuffed-in-your-back and a crawfish-boil-around-your-waist and why is the salesgirl expanding the closures with big-ass velvet clothes pins that look like exercise rubber bands used by people that actually e-x-e-r-c-i-s-e? What are those?
So many question, like: Why are all the samples in single digit sizes? Do they NOT have full figured women come in here? Who the hell do they think is actually paying for all this? The Bride? Is it wise to make the Mother’s of The
Bride/Groom feel like yesterday’s news? Could I wear a paper bag over my head? Do I really have to show-up at all?
So, I declined to purchase, but vowed to return. Later. After a miracle.
For the first time in my entire life I am on a reduction diet because I WILL be at my Midlife physical best when my son walks down that God Damn aisle or I will kill someone trying. (Yes- drama and destruction are my go-to mantras when I’m feeling self-loathing and someone I love is celebrating a wonderful milestone. I’m nothing if not a giver).
Here’s how the world I loved look:
Here’s how the world looks now:
Can this old lady find her groove again?
Yes she can. But it’s not as simple as deciding to loose a few before a day on the beach when I was 20. In those days all I had to do was indulge in only one grilled cheese sandwich, instead of two, or maybe, pop a diuretic (somehow I got my hands on a few). Viola! Case closed.
Even after my kids were born– a pound a day– OFF. Easy peasy.
I maintained this
indulgence superb physical superiority for decades… and then MENOPAUSE became my sleeping companion and shot to shit my metabolism.
But I was in New Orleans! And the livin’ is EASY. And the food is even better.
And the pounds they are a stubborn (Was that a Simon & Garfunckle song?).
So, here’s how it goes NOW:
I Reduce my caloric consumption to a level deemed inhumane in third world countries but somehow, suggested by the AHA for Americans. You know that program in Whole Foods where you can contribute to micro-loans for women attempting sustainable farming practices because the fathers of all of their children are AWOL in the jungle cooking Meth and can’t contribute? Could I mail them all of the Lobster Chowder in the big pot at the Soup Station, or the pizza in the brick oven next to the bakery full of chocolate Eclairs? I’d gladly give them my share.
I Increase my caloric burn rate. This is done by working a ‘Program’ four fucking days per week. When I enter, the cute girl with the perky tits always says, “Enjoy your workout Cheryl!”. I reply by saying, “Are you kidding? You must have perky tits.”
I am now on a first name basis with the once studdly, now Midlife overweight ex gymnastics coach that manages the gym. He tells me I’m the only one that minds my own business and just ‘works’. I tell him that’s because my ass was going to need it’s own zipcode.
He retorts with a mention that he’d like to send a package to that town.
But, it’s working- not quickly, but in a positive direction.
I don’t have MORE energy (So disregard THOSE claims meant to inspire you) but my boobs aren’t entering the room a week before me , and I no longer look like the 50yo crazbo grandmother who carried her barren daughter’s baby, and I can see my thighs again when I sit down, and my stomach doesn’t follow behind like a water balloon when I turn in bed.
The other added
side effect bonus is the fact that my face is melting, and by ‘melting’ I mean looking gaunt- with new creases in the hollows of my checks, and a sort of permanent sad clown thing going on around the eyes.
But I can always get THAT fixed. No workout involved…
Just tickets to the
cosmetic surgeon Circus.
Step right up folks! And under the Big Top we have a…