I weighed 87 pounds when I got married.
Now, not to say that this had been a goal -- the BHE and I did all of the nuptial planning and there were some extraordinary family circumstances, plus daily 2-hour commutes to our jobs, downstairs neighbors in the throes of a noisy, adulterous breakup, and a pet dachshund that needed surgery after he ate a superball in the back yard ten days before the wedding. There was a lot going on. I was five-foot-two, eyes of blue, so thin you could nearly see right through.
The adage is a pound goes on per year. So... twenty-two pounds. 109. Plus two kids. Okay, so say five more per. 119. And a change to a freelance job near my kitchen where I sit a lot. This is the part where I stop with the math, already.
And maybe some chocolate and some pasta. Because there are days when nothing lifts the mood like a good plate of ravioli and meatballs and some hearty red wine.
The thing is, I recently had to buy pants. Not yoga pants (see last September), mind you. Real pants. To wear in a professional environment. This is generally a nightmare in any case -- since I am on the petite side, longitudinally, I can never find pairs that aren't clumped up around my ankles or hanging over and off my feet like a bad bridal gown train. It is more depressing for me to shop for pants than it is kidding myself I am still perky enough to brave Victoria's Secret, then actually going into Victoria's Secret and being taunted by the snarky mirrors in there.
I gathered up my courage, sucked in my gut, and headed for the mall, armed with the encouraging words of child number 2 ("You are not fat"), and a kiss from the sympathetic hubby. I was determined to find at least three pairs, something flattering and comfortable, perhaps shaping and not requiring me to hem anything. Because as my family can tell you, I tend to procrastinate in the hemming department (just ask the BHE about the pair of pants we found 13 years after we bought them on our honeymoon, still unstitched) and I didn't have that luxury -- I needed something appropriate to cover my uber-pear-shaped-ness by the following Monday.
In the end I found seven pairs I thought might do the trick. Not bad, but honestly I'd picked a few different sizes and colors of the same styles. I found a dressing room with those accessible aluminum bars (because when you find yourself in pants slogging off you like a bad bridal train, you need something to grab before you go down trying to take a step) and a bench (because when you are trying to take off pants that are far too small for your "I still feel 27" disillusioned self, you need a place to rest while you play tug of war trying to remove something made with "comfort fit" lycra). Feeling grateful that the only other occupants of the dressing room were two teen girls so self-absorbed in trying on skinny jeans that they wouldn't hear me groan if I got stuck in something, I confronted my inner fashion demons and went at it.
I won't go into graphic details here. You might be getting ready to eat, or maybe you're just a sensitive soul. Let's just say that when the Wii Fit last measured me for my fitness program, I watched in horror as it made my avatar what one might call a little dumpy. You know things are bad when your avatar goes plump before your eyes. And then shakes its finger at you from the screen. Great. Victoria's Secret mirrors aren't enough; now I have cartoon characters making me feel guilty and doughy.
I will say this. It is painful to try on clothing that says it will slim you, only to find that its method for doing so is to squish everything that doesn't fit into its confines up, so that you look a bit like someone overfilled the cupcake bin and when the batter rose it splurged out over the top. When I was younger I wanted to be a little bustier, but trust me, nothing the slacks pushed up went that high -- even though the bust has tried to compromise in recent years by traveling down. Frankly I got a little nauseous from having my internal organs compressed into my armpits.
"Those look good." This came from one of the girls when I stepped outside my stall to see myself better in the larger aisle mirror. She was perhaps seventeen, thin as a rail and snugly poured into a pair of pants I might safely fit one arm into. I would've appreciated the compliment except I was in a pair of elastic-waisted trousers I used to see my grandmother consider. "Holy shit I'm huge!" she complained to her friend, then disappeared back into her own cubicle.
I stared at myself in the mirror. I was never going to look like that kid again. I'd had a family, I liked to cook, I'd had life experiences that the girl in the other stall had yet to have, and here's the thing -- the pants I had on did look good. For me.
I chose two pairs. I went home. I got another kiss.
*** I have two announcements to make:
1) I've been asked by the Long Island Writers' Guild to be one of four Featured Readers at their LIWG Reads! event on May 11th, at the East Meadow Library, 2-4 p.m. I'll be reading sometime during that first hour. Stop by if you can -- if not to hear me read something of my own, then for the open mic at 3. Refreshments will be served.
2) The Long Island Romance Writers are putting on their annual fabulous Editor/Agent luncheon at the Fox Hollow Inn, Woodbury, New York on June 7, noon to 4. You can get more info and register at www.lirw.org. Twenty-six Agents and Editors have signed on and you'd have hours to meet and pitch, plus there's a nice lunch. Seating is limited, but it's definitely a worthwhile and fun event.
