I’m not sure anyone else has noticed this, but apparently what used to be 210 pounds in 2010 looks a lot like 240 pounds in 2016. I think I might be melting too.
Naturally, I have many pairs of the same pants I wore comfortably at this same weight six years ago. Today, I have to lay on the bed to zip them, and then I have the inevitable waistband fold all day. And I’m thinking I should be proud of myself because I can wear the same pants.
Oh, I can, but with a couple of glitches. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll put a bobby pin in the zipper to yank it up if I have to. It’s just that I can remember them being loose at this same weight six years ago. Apparently everything has been redistributed or something, or I am truly melting. That puddle under the Wicked Witch of the West got much wider after she melted. Why I can’t look like Glinda, Good Witch of the North, is beyond me.
I spend thirty minutes on the elliptical nearly every day of the week, and if I so much as look at a piece of penne, I gain three pounds. It’s enough to make me throw my hands up in the air and make the drive to Dairy Queen.
All of this is nothing new, of course. I’ve been wearing swimsuits that cover me from neck to mid-thigh since I was in fourth grade. Back then, I had a little red number that looked like a bandana only it had an “apron” on it. Even when I was in elementary school, I had to cover this midsection. I can truly say that my belly has never, ever seen the light of day, except for one quick drunken skinny-dip hot tub session that involved my best friend from second grade, all grown up before her wedding. I think her mom was there too. And her younger sister. There were no men, naturally. But there was wine. Ah, everybody should do the same with their best friend from second grade. Come to think of it, we did that well past sundown.
I digress. I try to wear jeans at least three days a week so that I can remind myself to get on the elliptical. Jeans require that whole fastening thing. I could easily live the rest of my life with an elastic waistband. If you wear a long shirt, nobody has to know. The upper half of this Rubenesque-like body simply requires the extra-long, extra-large man-shirts they sell at Walmart, or what I like to call “tunics.” Coverage is key.
This whole conundrum can likely be attributed to gravity. That’s who I’m going to blame anyway. Somehow bringing a little proven science into it makes me feel better. It’s natural. It happens to all of us.
In my head, I know this. I realize I can’t look like I did in 1982, when my hair was feathered just so and I could still tuck my shirts in. But life being what it is, my head, and sometimes my heart, are still back in 1982, so I think the rest of me is just the same as well. But it’s not.
I can usually, and thankfully, fast-forward my whole being to the present. Then I’m grateful that I’ll be fifty-five in September, that I no longer, as my indomitable mother knew, care much about what other people think. But then again, she was a little bit of a thing. And one of those people who you would swear was 5’ 5” when she was really only 5’ 2” on a good day. She just stood above the rest of us, even though she was short.
Ultimately I gotta do my own thing. It might be a whole bunch of sweatpants. They make them really nice these days.