Skip to main content

Riffing on My Midriff

I’ve got a legitimate question. Why is it that no matter how many grape tomatoes and kale salads I pack in my lunch, my middle still looks like I swallowed the Michelin Man? I’m beginning to look like a preschool drawing; a big circle with twigs sticking out of it.

I realize I have the Guinness family to thank for some of this, but surely after months of never-before-attempted consistent exercise and more steamed broccoli than a pack of wild vegetarians could possibly consume, I should be able to add pants with zippers to my wardrobe by now.

It could be genetics, and if so, then why God, didn’t I take after my mother? I don’t think she ever wore anything with a double digit. Of course, she did eat like a bird, except when it came to black jelly beans and her morning doughnut.

The only thing I can come up with is that I’m over 50 now and I have stretched my skin so far over the years that it has to accumulate someplace and it decided to hang out right at centerfield. What’s worse is that I have a feeling it has taken up residence and has no plans to move.

After a certain age, everything between my shoulders and hips became nothing more than a series of rolls. I lose a roll sometimes and maybe a few of the mountains have turned into hills, but I could still carry a roll of quarters in between them.

This reminds me of when I was in college and read in Cosmo or someplace that you should not be able to fit a pencil under your boobs without it dropping to the floor; even back then I could have fit a pack of highlighters under there.

A while ago I began trying to make peace with the fact that these rolls are probably here to stay. I am trying to take heart each time the count goes down and I lose one of them, dear friends that they’ve become.

I know losing one is a victory. And like a true champ, I want to celebrate every success with a nice slab of cake with a side of ice cream finished off with a helping of deep remorse.

My dream has always been to lose enough rolls so that I could finally look like Meg Ryan. Instead I have to keep wearing baggie shirts that don’t stick to my belly dough.

Oh, I know, I could just get over myself and wear a shirt that touches me. But somewhere along the way I developed a strong aversion to my clothing actually rubbing up against my skin.

I’ve seen other Rubenesque women pull off the clingy shirt, but it’s not for me. Oh, I’ve tried it, but before I even step out of my bedroom to look in the mirror, the shirt is halfway over my head and I’m pulling my waggling arms out of it.

And forget about tight pants. I own about a half dozen pairs of those leggings, mostly black of course. If you see me in them it means all of my jumbo pants are in the washing machine.

I guess if, I mean when, I turn into Meg Ryan I’ll have to write her a letter and ask her if she’d consider dressing like Bea Arthur.  


Popular posts from this blog

I might need a price check

So my husband Chris works three days a week in America, and I’m trying not to take this personally.
He’s commuting Monday mornings on the 6:30 ferry over to Cape Cod, where he works at an upholstery shop in Hyannis, the Mattydale of Cape Cod, for all you Syracuse readers. I stay here and hold down the fort, cooking up a cocktail of frozen pizzas and mac n’ cheese weeknights for my poor Danny. Chris comes back late Thursday night, all giddy over toilet paper prices and quotes on cheaper rent.
No, no, no, and more no I say. I can’t possibly leave all this off-season quiet and high-priced laundry detergent. There’s no convincing me to leave no matter how many times Chris points out that there’s a Trader Joe’s “over there.”
I want to stay here until I miraculously win on one of those $5 scratchers and can buy my own house here. The difference being that I feel confident that I will someday scratch my way to freedom while Chris thinks we’d be smarter to look into a nice rental “over there.…

Library lady

So today a co-worker who is — let’s just be honest here — 70 years old, gave me a serious run for my money at the library. Some guy was looking for a specific movie, which just happened to be located on the very bottom shelf, and I did one of those pretend searches for it on the middle shelf. She walks over and squats down like she’s going to give birth in some Third World country and finds it in two seconds. Again, here we are. Now I’m at home tearing open the cardboard box of a frozen pizza and she’s obviously at home on a rubber mat touching her big toe to her nose.      I regularly call the doctor to renew my prescription for muscle relaxers, while it seems like the rest of the women on this ridiculously fit island drink hot tea and take a warm bath for their yoga-stressed muscles. Thank God my teeth are relatively good.
     It’s not easy to work with women your age and older who think nothing of drinking spinach shakes and lugging all kinds of crap around. If I tried half the…

Getting well takes baby steps

So I’ve had what you could call a case of the pneumonia. It was not pleasant. And to top it off it happened in San Antonio, Texas. Like I wasn’t sweating before the fever.
I was there to see my niece Michelle, who by the way kept asking me, “Are you going to write about this?” which is funny because she’s a writer too. I naturally said, “Oh no, of course not.” And here we are.
Thinking back, the best part of that trip teeters between meeting my two great-nephews, Oliver and Isaac, and having a couple of beers with their Yaya, my sister, who I haven’t had beers with in decades. Like I said, it’s a toss-up. There’s also the fact that I got to spend time with my niece’s husband Alex. He’s a hardcore military guy. He teaches other military guys how to be military policemen. I’m not going to gamble on writing anything about him. He’s from Wisconsin though, which I like. And he likes to cook, which I also like.
I thought to myself before I ever left my nice cocoon of Martha’s Vineyard to tra…