Denial Ain’t Just a River in Egypt
I will let you decide which noble and majestic, wild beast I will be currently comparing myself to. I’ll give you a hint: It’s not Marty. (That was a layered hint. See, you have to know first of all, that that is a pic of an elephant and a zebra. Then you need to know about the very funny, but child-oriented, movie called Madagascar–the first one–which means you either: have to have kids, have no kids but love cartoon movies, or either have kids or not have kids but LOVE Chris Rock. “Oh I could hang here. I could hang here!” That’s my favorite quote and I have been perfecting my perfect Chris Rock impersonation. It is magnificent!) Much like that elephant above.
I do have a fantastic memory. And I am strong and powerful. And coincidentally, I kind of have a big nose. Luckily, my teeth are good and no tusks are growing out of my head just yet. Unfortunately…I am in current possession of a larger-than-life body to lumber around in. I can deny it no more.
The catalyst for this sudden realization, was clothes shopping at the mall over the weekend, as it most always usually is. It was not, as previously reported here, my mother’s gentle and loving, reality wake-up call, that she gave me a few weeks ago. You can read the whole post here if you want, but if you don’t like to jump around, I can sum it up by telling you she pretty much told me I was a big fat, fatty-bo-batty, in plain, clear English and said I should do something about that. Even though that doesn’t sound funny, it was actually VERY funny. In fact, it still is pretty funny. It makes me laugh just typing it. Only a mom can tell you that you are a cow and it only stings for a second, then it turns into hilarious laughter and a trip to the Starbuck’s to add another winter layer to the protective hide. But back to the mall.
A while back I went to buy some “interview” clothes. And I had the chance to wear them to a job fair and to Thanksgiving dinner. Then my daughter helped me wash the clothes and shrunk my perfectly fitted blouse into a shirt that I could barely get over my arms and shoulders, much less button again. When I say, perfectly fitted, I mean that it was already snug. EXCUSE ALERT!! I have very broad shoulders and a large ribcage with extra boobage, that none of my sisters or mom have. So that’s what I tell myself when I can’t find a nice button up blouse to fit me properly. No matter, that when I look at past pictures, I don’t seem extra large (in women’s clothes–yes, shameful secret, I have to shop in the misses or the women’s section. The juniors are mostly beyond my range and style threshold now. Also, I like my pants unripped and not looking like they got dragged through a dirt pile before I wear them.) Anyway, the point here, is that I was looking for something to wear in case I need to go on an interview. I kind of decided to look on a whim. We were there because my son wanted a suit coat and shirt and tie to wear for his 8th grade graduation pictures this week. (Yay!! Almost there!! He found everything he wanted in 15 minutes. Fits perfectly. Looks sharp. Not so for his mom. Sad face.) I know I know. Just get to the point.
As I was wandering around from store to store, department to department, trying to find a basic blouse to go with plain black dress slacks, I realized that:
1. I felt like a giant dumptruck. I was grossly dressed in ill-fitting jeans screaming for mercy, ripped up shoes and a hoodie, with frizzy hair (sorry A, I know that hurts, it will get better), little make-up and a bad attitude. My own fault. Plus that dread cycle coming up has put me in pity mode for a few days. I hate it, but at least realizing it helps make it go away for me.
2. Patterns are the staple in women’s clothing and they can not only be ugly as hell, but they have the ability to make you instantly feel like an old lady with one bad color scheme.
3. My son and BF are hilarious. They meant to be funny with their comments about the clothes and my size issue. I was gently told I should consider something “not so fitted” especially if the buttons will be straining to stay buttoned. Even when I am standing. OUCH. What??? I have not been totally in the dark about this, but you know, bloating and not drinking enough water, and blah blah blah. My daughter’s new favorite phrase is, “You just got hit by a reality truck!” Well, I got hit by the truck, run over, and then it backed up and ran over me again. It was really the, “Are we going to have to go to Lane Bryant?” comment that pushed me out into traffic. It was said in a totally joking manner with no sarcasm or malevolence at all. But that one stung. Like, I almost cried, stung. And I have a pretty thick skin, like an elephant, metaphorically speaking. Sometimes it completely sucks to be female. For the record, I do still fit in the regular store sizes, I even have a two to three size leeway before I have to give up the general department store or move to the Plus size section. I tried the clothes on, so I know. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with Lane Bryant stores or clothing. It’s just the next level of dressing nice for the bigger girl and NOT resorting to stretchy pants and sweatshirts. Which IS terrible. But that’s not going to happen.
4. My daughter is hilarious and dashed around the clothing racks looking for the perfect blouse because, “It’s not a big deal mom, just start exercising and eating better and it will be fine. You know you can do that.” and just like that, on and on, while she picked stuff out, matched things up and made me try them on while she determined which is the best. All while trying to cheer me up and soothe my hurt feelings with humor and the promise that after we shop we can go eat our last meal of fried greasy food because fried food always makes you feel better. My little Buddha.
I will say, for myself, personally, or for anyone who has the variety pack of kids, and this is most definitely a MUSH ALERT (skip it if you must): I feel extremely lucky to have a boy and a girl to raise and be raised by. They each bring their own unique personalities, and, still being formed, world views to the table along with some staggeringly stereotypical behaviors and ideas, that I can only attribute to their basic gender and gene pool that combine to make them the perfect balance between never wanting them to grow up and leave my sight and life or sending them packing to their dad’s for a long vacation. The definitely keep you grounded and aware of the world even when you don’t want to be. And most of the time they don’t even know they are doing it to you. Yes, I would like to order two of the offspring reality trucks to be delivered to the mall on Sunday. Schedule a drive-by and then a basic run-and-back-over, for about 2 pm. I’ll also take a Diet Coke while I wait. Thank you!
In the end, I bought a few different blouses. I need to dress better anyway. I look like a…well, I don’t know what I look like. I have no style whatsoever. I have been counting on the fact that the whole rest of my life will be in a scrub uniform so who cares. My daughter says I am just a real basic mom. I stay the same. “You’re just the standard jeans and black t-shirt mom. The simple mom. With the same clothes every day and the black shoes.” She struggles with the words but she means it in the most positive way. And since I’m so evenly proportioned, body wise, symmetrical, is what she means. I don’t really get fat in any one area, I just kind of “puff up”.
Now, tell me, who would NOT like to be described as “puffed up”? To make a long story, even longer, I faced my fear. Woke up yesterday, sent the kids to school, did my usual coffee/Words/computer/job search/money search/throw in a load of laundry morning and then suited up to hit the trail for a brisk four mile walk/run. Break the barrier. Start the exercise process again. Ease back into good health and healthy eating. Again. But, before I left the house, I took pictures. Horrible, shameful, lumpy pictures. So bad, I already warned my children to stay off my phone and not to be looking at all my pictures lest they be scarred for life. Nothing naked. It’s clear enough, without the nudity, that I need help. I mean, if we are facing our fears the proper body image is necessary. I have a distorted view of myself as my BF will gladly tell you is true. It’s not what you are thinking though. I see myself as far BETTER looking and THINNER than I actually am. Weird right? I always think I am smaller and weigh less than I actually do. AND, I am always very surprised when I see myself in a picture or in a mirror because that is not how I view myself in my own head. I don’t think I look like a model or anything. I know I don’t. I just over estimate my looks and body size. Probably my sense of humor and skill at writing too, but that never stops me from typing word after endless word. Let me just pause here, to say thank you, if you are still reading this, because with my attention span, I am not so sure I would still be reading me. And also, I hope there are not too many errors, because I really doubt I will go back and check it. Also, I am getting nervous this is taking so long because I have to walk to the library today as my exercise. Briskly, walk to the library. Change it up. Stay fresh. So I don’t quit on the second day.
Back to the post: I did good yesterday. One hour for four miles. Not groundbreaking. Not record setting. But it was outside (45 degrees—50-55 today! Unbelievable) and I did sweat. Then I came home and did something even crazier. Even more dangerous and fear inducing. I weighed myself. On a scale. An actual scale, with numbers, that tell your weight in pounds. I usually judge my weight by the jeans I can fit into. I have the 8-10-11 multi-pack of jean sizes. Different company’s but surprisingly accurate in helping me gauge my weight to within a few pounds. The only problem with my system is that I only have 5 pairs of jeans total to wear and weigh by. Four now. I lost the 10’s in the thigh rub incident of a few days ago (a tragedy I transcribed here some days ago, in far more words than necessary, as is my custom). It’s really a complicated system and sounds kind of confusing when you say it out loud, but the 10’s were the fat jeans. Pushing the highest weight I could go basically while staying UNDER 200 pounds. That is very important as that is the magic number for me. I have never, and will never (hopefully) see that number on a scale. Even pregnant I never hit it. And I tried. Long story…my boy decided to come three weeks early and spoiled my gain plan. Anyway, the 11’s are stretchy. Spandex is a wonder material. So even though the size is technically larger, my butt needs to be smaller to fit in them. But one of the 11’s is stretchier than the other. So it’s a matter of how stretchy do I want them and how comfortable will they be for the whole day? That’s the middle weight. The 8’s are the smallest. Again supposedly with Spandex, but one pair is decidedly stretchier than the other, by far. One pair I feel perfect in.
The other pair though, gives me, what I like to call: The JMT’s. That would stand for Jumbo Muffin Tops. Or “Juffins” as me and Stevie like to cackle about. One day, recently, the muffin tops were really spilling over and we were laughing about how they jiggle when I laugh and get worse when I sit and how I need a tighter buffer shirt to wear under my real shirt to try and skim them over, like frosting on a messed up, cracked and crumbly lumpy cake. I said, ” I don’t just have muffin tops, I have jumbo muffin tops. I have Juffins!” and we laughed hysterically. I am sure I am not the first or only person to have come up with that, but I’m taking credit in my world because I never heard it before and I said it and my daughter and son were there when I did. So that makes it official!
Got all that? Here’s the key to the whole thing. The weight was not as bad as I thought. And even if it was, who cares. I was ready to cry and curse all the delicious food in the world and my lack of willpower and laziness anyway. I still will. Probably forever. Nobody can be good ALL the time. Nobody. The point is I am aware. It is reality. It is not nice or pleasant but it’s OK. I will not reveal the number. It’s too much. But I will say that it is less than my top preggy weight and that is a miracle in itself I will not take for granted. And in the spirit of almost-full discretion, I weighed after the exercise and butt ass naked. Not pretty but I needed any help I could get for this. On the other hand, I am pre-menstrual though and I am a gainer beforehand. I have gone as high as five or six extra pounds. Which I always thought was such a croc and makes no difference, but when you are only 5 foot 5 on a good day, standing rimrod straight and you are over 40, it makes a whole hell of a lot of difference. Obviously I have enough sense of self to not let things go crazy crazy and it also means my jean theory works pretty good. But I need to go buy smaller jeans if I want to keep this up. I read in a magazine that the French ladies tie a ribbon around their waist before they eat and when it gets tighter they stop. Same concept with my jean system. That waist band can only dig into your belly flab for so long and for only so far before it becomes painful and medically dangerous and you must stop. I could bust a spleen sometimes, I wear them so tight.
Alright. For real now. I have to end this. I have stuff to do and miles to walk. My legs is sore! And the temp is up to almost 50 degrees! And it’s sunny! I must go outside! I must stop using so many exclamation points! Thanks for making it all the way to the end! You all get 100 bonus calories to use as you please! Have a great afternoon and I’ll chat back here later with the rest of the stuff I had planned. See you on the sidewalk.
just shy of pretty 
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