I Think I’ll Curl Up and Diet

For years, I’ve said weight, much like age, is just a number. “What matters is how I feel,” I’ve said. Do I have enough energy? Can I move around comfortably? Do my clothes fit? As long as I could answer “yes” to those questions, the status quo sufficed.

My bathroom scale – otherwise known as Judge of the John – collected dust under the sink, and I became quite happy with a little distance in our relationship. Judge John hasn’t said anything pleasant to me in years, and our brief conversations begin with him proclaiming something so ridiculous, it’s offensive, and end with me rolling my eyes and vowing never to see him again.

While it’s true that weight is just a number, that number is currently 25 more than when I met Mr. Wright, ten years ago. I’ve added six children to my family in that time, and it’s natural for a woman to pack on a few extra pounds when she welcomes a new child.

Of course, those women actually grow children inside their bodies. Can I claim empathy pounds?

Do I have enough energy? Sure, depending on what you want me to do. I have adequate energy levels to cuddle a child on the sofa while watching a Veggie Tales DVD. Once a day, I can muster enough power to prepare a meal that doesn’t involve a microwave. If anything further is required, the last of my reserves will rally to prepare a pot of coffee.

Can I move around comfortably? In many ways, I’m more comfortable. Ten years ago, I couldn’t sleep on my side or my stomach without my ribs getting in the way. Today, I can sleep in any position, and though I haven’t seen or heard from my ribs in a while, I suspect they’re doing fine, wherever they are. At least, I haven’t received any phone calls asking for bail money.

Do my clothes fit? If “skinny jeans” is really just a figure of fashion speech, my clothes fit. If an A-line dress is meant to be fitted all the way down the line, my clothes fit. As long as I can believe my dresses shrunk, making the hemlines much higher – and ignore Mr. Wright’s supposition that my butt is just lower – my clothes fit. As long as I wear yoga pants and sweatshirts… my clothes fit.

I tried a girdle. I think they’re called “body shapers” now. Indeed, my body took on new shape after I stretched, tugged, yanked, held my breath and jumped up and down while pulling the infernal thing into place. It should be noted that special scientific laws apply to fat and cellulite; namely, they can’t be flattened or smoothed, but they can be redistributed.

The padding from my butt and thighs, squeezed downward, oozed out the legs of the body shaper until the tops of my knees looked like two loaves of bread. My love handles smooshed upward, out the top of the shaper, giving me every appearance of a second set of breasts and the need for another brassiere.

My rear end and mid-section – as promised – were perfectly shaped and smoothed, for what it’s worth.

I’m pretty sure I heard Judge John snickering under the bathroom sink as I pleaded with my last pair of size six jeans this morning. My feelings were so hurt; I almost couldn’t finish my second stack of peanut butter pancakes.

Photo credit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/jodigreen/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0