There are, I know, a few of you can identify with this. I was in a change room today and as I stood semi-naked in front of what I was praying was a one-way mirror, I realized:
Here I am, 54 and six months pregnant, WTF?
I know what you’re thinking: what a way to disclose.
But here’s the kicker: I’m only 48 and I’m NOT pregnant. I’m pudgy.
Indulge me, I promise I won’t wallow long
Largely because I am drinking a Hello Kitty mug’s worth of tea and have the bladder of a Yellow-Bellied Marmot.
Sitting on my shelf (still unread, because I suffer greatly from writers’ envy) is a copy of Nora Ephron’s I Feel Bad About My Neck. When I first bought it, I briefly thought she felt bad about the neck, using “about” as a locus of pain.
Then I turned 43. And I got it. The crêpy neck thing. You can pull your face all you want til you have a beard but you can’t really do diddly about the neck. Around the neck. I feel bad around the neck. But my neck feels fine. I feel badly that it looks like a man’s shorn nibblies.
I submit that one’s neck, after a certain age, looks not unlike a slightly retracted circumcised penis.
Another tidbit: As with trees, one’s age can be discerned by the “rings” on one’s neck. Consider the following (cast eyes right-ward). Just for the record, that is my neck, not my penis, which I don’t have anyway.
All the high-priced unguents won’t do jack-shit for your neck. The collagen is gone, ladies.
BTW, don’t use straws after 28. That’s another blog for another day.
Indulge me. I swear I’m not wallowing.
I sweat. I don’t need to wallow.
Did I say sweat? I never used to sweat. I hardly sweat in my entire life and that includes 20 years of boxing (unprofessionally, just as sparring partner).
Then I turned 45. And I started to sweat. But never when other people sweat(ed?). I would sweat when I’d least expect it, not counting trips to malls. Those go without saying. It took me a while to figure it out: hot flashes.
Hot Stuff Baby This Evening
Am I really old enough for hot flashes? To me, hot flashes were something only older ladies who smelled of overly ripe Chanel No 5 and face powder smelled like. The same generation who wore foundation garments and sported curlers (covered with a smart, handy-dandy fold-able rain bonnet–after having one’s hair “done” on a Friday afternoon–to the A&P).
But then something occurred to me: I have great boobs. I never had boobs in my life. Until I was 40, I was Margaret in Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret although I was a 36AA (from all that boxing).
So I have the boobs. I FINALLY got my boobs. Perhaps that warning “be careful what you wish for” has proved true. Those years of boob-envy. I am finally able to have a “figure” as my mother would have said. No more “this side up” or “itty bitty titty committee” jokes, thanks. I am full-figured, dammit. Screw you, all you jerks who wouldn’t dance with me back at the Friday Sock Hops because feeling me up was like groping one of your foul-smelling brethren.
Baby, I got boobs and booty now.
But must I be so full-figured?
The tale of the tape this week
I’m maintaining my 158. My faithful sister joining me on the Weight Stagnation Journey tells me she’s fallen off the wagon. But it’s still only 2014 so these final days are just the rehearsal before the big show.
And isn’t it true a bad dress rehearsal makes for a good performance? So while I may be 54 and pregnant right now, perhaps by March (28th is my guess) I’ll be delivered of at least 10 pounds?
Boy or girl, I don’t care. As long as we’re healthy. 🙂