Well, Hello Stretchy Pants!

Well, it’s started, and all I want to do is run away until it’s all over. The lead in to the holiday seasons has already begun. Let’s start with homecoming parades that fill small town streets during October. In our little town of Clayton, NC (which I love beyond sanity), the homecoming parade for the local high school is a big deal. They block off Main Street and small armadas of floats sail down with kids throwing candy to those who gather to watch the parade. Halloween isn’t here yet, and already I’m being pelted by candy. Granted, I had my four-year-old son with me at the parade, but seriously, how can I expect to lose weight when we collected a shoe box full of candy? It’s staring at me now from atop the refrigerator, taunting me and telling me that I won’t be losing much of Mary in the month of October.

Sure, I know the logic. Halloween is only one day; Thanksgiving is only one day, and Christmas? Plueeeeze! There are fall parties, Christmas parties, cookie exchanges and more. The next eleven weeks might as well come with a sieve. Just shove the food in. I know the tricks, eat before you go, or make sensible choices when you go to the parties and gatherings. In my case, it’s best not to show up. As much as I love decorating, the crisp chill of the autumn air, the bon fires and the family gatherings, the food is my downfall. It trips me up as it spreads itself on table tops, beckoning. Somebody throw me a life line please!

As I’ve matured (I refuse to say as I’ve aged, it’s bad enough I can’t say as I’ve slimmed down), I’ve come to understand that will power does not exist in my vocabulary, let alone where weight loss is concerned. I try to use diversionary tactics. I’ll decorate, but stay away from baking until the last possible moment. I’ll go to a party but try to stay on the porch and chat my way around the crowd, away from the food and the delicious aromas that try to pull me to the table. After the third or fourth party, all bets are off. Who can resist? I want to taste the new recipes, gobble the turkey and stuffing, and bite into the creamy goodness of the mocha cheese cake. I swear, by the time Christmas gets here my Spanx won’t even make it over my thighs. They might as well be a big sling shot because they’ll fly off me and wing around the room the minute I try to pull them up. Even Lycra has its limits.

So, I am begging my friends to change their venues. Could we have a “Rake the Leaves” party, or “I’ll help you hang your Christmas garlands and you help me hang mine” gathering, instead of progressive dinners? How about a Christmas ornament exchange with veggie platters and, okay, a little brie? Oh please help me help myself to something other than cookies! My stretchy pants are calling, and I really, really want to ignore them.

Middle Age is a Wicked Thing

If I am considered middle-aged at 52, then I should expect to live to 104. That scares me to pieces, and quite frankly, things are changing faster than I can keep up with now without adding longevity into the mix. I can’t figure out the warped sense of humor in certain things, like why my eye sight is going now that I have more chin hairs to pluck than a chinchilla in mid-winter? Along with that, whose great idea was it that my daughter would be in the throes of puberty while I’m in peri-menopause? It’s like the wild kingdom in our house between the hair growth and the alpha female syndrome.

I keep expecting our house to blow up, up, up, over the neighborhood in some kind of hormonal explosion. Yep, news at 11, menopausal mom and teen lock horns, details will follow. The fuse can be lit by the simplest of topics. Never, evah ask your teen daughter, “Are you wearing that?” especially just before she walks out the door to go to school. These things seem to happen when I’m in the middle of a hot flash (really Mama, you could have told me), and all I want to do is run and hide. To top all of that off, we’ve lost our lives to the high school band, four-year-old soccer games and homework which makes it seem impossible on some days to have a remotely normal schedule. Dinner, we found, became one of the first casualties of the “new” schedule. They say you should eat all of your meals sitting down, and I do…in my car. It’s the only place where I have time to sit these days, except for the sidelines at the football and soccer games.

That’s a real gourmand’s nightmare too. You can get your hot dog with, or WITH OUT chili and your choice of beverage is soda, or soda. Yum. No wonder my hips are taking up more and more space on the bleachers. I had hoped that at this point, Losing Mary would be losing more pounds. My intentions are always stellar, but the follow through gets muddled with everyday life, hormones and chin plucking. I’ve heard the “you should plan your day better,” and “carry a meal with you to the games,” and while that advice is sound, it’s hard to carry a meal when the high school won’t allow “external food.”

Now, just what the dickens is external food? They’re talking about my love handles, I just know it. And who named them love handles anyway? It used to be that I could zip up a pair of jeans and rush out the door, but now, these, these, things! They just pop over the top of my jeans and flop over like whale blubber hanging off a ship. And who invented these hipster jeans? I don’t know if the blubber is popping over or getting ready to slide off into the sea. So here I am, caught in a tizzy, middle-aged, menopausal with a teen, a four-year-old and a hubby. If you see me coming, run. I’m armed with tweezers and a magnifying mirror, fanning the flames of hot flashes while following the band, and whimpering in the face of middle age. I tell ya, if that don’t scare you, nothing will. Full story at 11. Amen.

I’ll Take My Scars and Wear Them Too.

Oh heaven help me. I’m beginning to sound like the quintessential, stereotypical elderly person who, when asked “How are you doing?” comes back with a litany of all medical things wrong. Let me explain. I’ve had stitches on the left side of my nose (from a Dachshund bite, the silly little doggy actually jumped up, bit my nose and hung on while I stood), I had a large mole removed on the top of my left cheek (facial), and last year I had a tumor removed from the parotid gland on the left side of my face. The scar from the previous surgery went from the top of my ear to the middle of my neck. I’m tired of it, but it seems I’m not yet done. Two weeks ago I had a small basal cell (a common form of cancer) removed from under the right side of my nose. If you’re going to have a form of skin cancer, that’s the one to have, but on the other hand, can we leave my face alone already?  Seriously, I’d rather have the scar and know I took care of business than face (pun unintended) something worse down the line.

There are several types of skin cancer; Basal cell carcinoma is one of the most common and the least serious kinds of skin cancer. It grows slowly and very rarely spreads. This is what I had, and treatment is usually done by a dermatologist. Some very small skin cancers can be completely removed during the biopsy, but if not, further treatment is needed. In my case they did surgery, taking out the cell. It’s also important to understand that this type of surgery usually does leave a visible scar. The doctors are, after all, taking something out, leaving a gap that can’t be “refilled” and then sewing it all back together again.

Honestly, the reason I’m letting you know is that if you have ANY spots, moles or blotches you question, get them checked NOW. It’s so worth it. If I had gone when I first noticed what I thought was an irritated little spot, I wouldn’t have needed 18 (tiny) stitches on my upper lip to the side of my nose. Being fair, blonde and blue-eyed, I still tan, but as much caution as I use in the sun with sun screen and such, stuff still happens. The earlier you act on it, the better it is for you. It’s been two weeks and my stitches are out, and the scar is starting to fade. Eventually, I’ll be able to cover the area up with make-up. I’m lucky and I know it. There are other forms of skin cancer that are much more serious and can shut you down, but with early intervention, odds of recovery are better and in my case, the scars smaller. I’ve included photos of basal cell carcinoma and photos of the excised area from my surgery. If you’re squeamish, you can pass by it, but please, don’t pass off an exam. It’s not about vanity, it’s about good health.

Basal Cell Carcinoma                                                                                                        

Excised area, lines drawn in help show where natural facial lines are and help the doctor to determine where the stitches will be least likely to change the facial line.

Stitches one week later. Some swelling still apparent.

Remember, we’re born with the skin we live in and taking care of it is well worth a copay.

Opening Doors

Being a mom sometimes makes it hard to stay the course when it comes to dieting. Case in point: my daughter just had braces put on and now I am surrounded by mashed potatoes, milkshakes, mac and cheese, and smoothies of the unhealthy variety. Guess who has to make these soft, creamy, mashable foods? Mama’s hips are once again on the verge of a widening project. I used to have will power, but then I had children, bless them.

It’s not just the new diet-due-to-braces situation. Honestly it’s been the entire month of August. The entire get-ready-for-school, hit the doctor’s office for physicals and eye exams, get the new glasses, buy the new clothes, get the band supplies, and alter your family’s entire life for the one child’s band experience that has me wishing for a dietician to move into my home. I have no idea where August has gone or what I may have had to eat. I do know I have had food and in more quantities than I thought. The scales told me that somehow two pounds have crept back on my thighs, my hips and my waistline. I bent over the other day and just knew I was going to turn red, huff, and then whizz all over the room like a renegade balloon squealing out air. Luckily that didn’t happen, but the sensation, nonetheless, was there.

I knew there would be good days and bad days going into my commitment to a healthier me, but I didn’t expect an entire month! The stress alone from the money spent has me in a tailspin and my daughter’s birthday is at the end of the month to boot. She wants to take her friends to the local Italian restaurant for supper. Oh joy. Nothing low carb there. On top of all the get ready for school and birthday hoopla, it’s been a month full of bad news, and that always leads me to the pantry.

I thought about that long and hard a few days ago while in the company of my friend Dawn. It was one of those little epiphanies, or ah-ha moments. Before my Dad passed away, I was always a little on the bigger girl size, but I was never overweight. I can earnestly remember the scads of food brought into our home when the news got out that my Father had passed away. The kitchen table alone was at groaning capacity. In the middle of the night, I woke out of a lousy sleep to hear the refrigerator door opening up. I swear this is true. My bedroom was upstairs and yet I could hear the refrigerator open. After throwing on a robe, I tiptoed down to the kitchen where my big brother was loading a plate with a little bit of this and a little bit of that. When he saw me, he reached into the silverware drawer and grabbed another fork. This was how we soothed the heartache for a few minutes in a heartbreaking time. I believe that since that moment I’ve always looked to food for comfort. The ah-ha moment came when I realized that I should have been looking at the fact that I spent those moments, not with food, but with my brother. It’s not the food that will heal me, but the moments I share with those who love me. I have to learn not to let food get in the way.

So while I careen around the highway taking my daughter to and from marching band rehearsals and my son to soccer, weaving in and out of the mine fields of mushy foods and milkshakes and bad news, I need to be mindful of the moments I share and who I am lucky enough to share them with. Maybe, just maybe I can close the pantry door and instead of hearing the refrigerator open while I sleep, I’ll remember that the door to those important to me is the one to open.

People…People Who Need People…

There are times when you just can’t believe who you are thankful for. Yesterday, during my workout at the gym, I didn’t think I was going to make it through. Then my iPod, set on shuffle, starting playing “On The Floor” sung by Jennifer Lopez with Pitbull (the rapper, not the dog) going on about “that badonka donk is like a trunk full of bass on an old school Chevy.” Being 51, I can appreciate my, uh, badonka donk being compared to a Chevy trunk. Yep, that’s me, the 1959 classic model, a little care worn but she runs like hell! Still, if the heavy driving beat of that song hadn’t come on when it did, I know I would have just melted away into a puddle of sweat “on the floor.” I have to remember to send Jennifer a thank you note.

While I really am thankful for fast paced music that gets me motivated, I’m not feeling the love for People magazine. They kind of got on my last nerve last week. I was talking with my girlfriend about my last blog and how all the stars have physical trainers and she told me that People had an article on “How to Get Summer’s Rockin’ Bodies.”  The article went on to tell how Taylor Swift, age 21, Katy Perry -26, Rihanna -23, Britney – 29 and Beyoncé – 29, had achieved such “rockin’ bodies.”  Four out of the five had their TRAINERS explaining what they did. Well shut my mouth. (Go ahead; I assure you many have tried.) Think about it for a moment. Who usually buys People magazine? I really can’t see Angelina and Brad going over it and saying “Oh yeah, we simply must get Katy’s trainer over for tips.”  People is a wonderfully entertaining ESCAPE from most of our realities, but I can’t take it realistically.  Sure, I go to a gym where trainers are available and I do what I can, but I don’t have the luxury of a daily two hour workout with my own hunka-hunka trainer.

Like I said last week, I wish I had people, not the magazine, but people like trainers, cooks, meal planners, maids, social assistant, nanny and a chauffeur. Geez, the problem is, if I could have just one, which one would I choose? The trainer is tempting, especially if he looked like George Clooney. I could work with that. Still, the cook and meal planner are more up my alley. I wouldn’t have to cook, and therefore I wouldn’t be tasting the food while I’m cooking. Less in, less on the old Chevy trunk. That would free up so many hours in a day. Plus, I wouldn’t be going into the ole grocery store and making those “emotional” purchases. “Mommy, please, we haven’t had Ho-Hos in ages!” The maid? I really need to just nix that one. With a two-story home the stairs are my own personal elliptical. Now the nanny is tempting, think of all the things I could get done! I could even find the time to actually make my playlist for my time at the gym! Seriously, I don’t begrudge celebrities the people they have to help them out. Besides, if I could have the trainer, the cook, etc., you can bet I’d at least try my hand at all of them.

The honest to goodness truth is that yesterday worked out just fine with only the assistance of my iPod and my husband. He went to the gym with me and he motivates me every day, whether I like it or not. He’s been on a really strict workout schedule for the past three months and it’s nothing short of inspiring. He’s up at 5am; he hits the gym, comes home, showers and helps me get the kids out the door to Band practice and Mother’s Morning Out for the little one. Yesterday he took the day off just to hang out with me and help me get back on track. Ya know what? It was fun. There we were, two red-faced, sweaty, middle-aged, regular people, and we were having fun trying to get fit. So Britney and the others can have their trainers, I think I already have the best people, and, uh, J.Lo! 

If you could pick your “people,” who would it be? The trainer vs. the cook? Why?

Getting Where I Want To Be

It’s been one of those weeks where motivation has been low; news has been bad, and the run to and from Band Camp has started. In the middle of all my usual activities I received a phone call that left me hurt and puzzled. The caller was well intended and before I hung up, I had the opportunity to get my point across, but the call left me chafed to say the least. “How can you do a blog about losing weight when you had lap-band surgery two years ago? Just because it failed you, doesn’t mean you haven’t tried to take the easy way out.” Well, the expletives that came to mind when I heard that wouldn’t have done anyone any good and my daughter was too close by for me to be, uh, as ticked as I would have liked to have been.

Two years ago I opted for the lap-band surgery after twenty-five years of living with the ups and downs of weight loss, the constant struggle, and the snarky comments. I wasn’t a heavy child, or a heavy teen. The weight came on after my father had passed away; I used food to pacify emptiness, to celebrate, and at times to ease boredom. When I was getting ready to turn fifty, I looked at my two young children and made a decision to try and be the best I could be health-wise. (Mainly so I could mess my children up for a longer length of time, causing them endless hours of therapy by living longer, but that’s another story.) The decision to have the lap-band surgery was fraught with controversy. I was told it was the easy way out, that I was lazy and just didn’t want to put in the discipline that was needed into losing weight, and that it would fail anyway. I was surprised, not so much by the comments, but where they came from. Still there were those who were supportive and it was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. For a year the weight came off, slowly and steady. My energy level was up and I felt good about myself for the first time in many years. Then I had a second surgery.

Six months after the lap-band, I went for a round of tests after discovering a lump on the side of my neck. I had a tumor in the parotid gland, the size of a grade a large egg. Usually cancer is not an issue with this type of tumor, but the large size and location had my doctor cautiously concerned. Two biopsies were done and, with a breath that can only be described as heavenly, I was told there was no cancer. The surgery was a four-hour plus ordeal due to the location of the tumor, and the need for care to avoid paralysis of the facial muscles. I got lucky all the way around. I can wink, blink, grin and whistle, and the scar, while noticeable, is faint. It runs from the top of my left ear down into the middle of my neck. The only side effect came from the anesthesiology.

I am now more susceptible to infection and in the past seven months I’ve been in the emergency room twice and have spent four of those seven months on steroids and antibiotics. Anybody know what steroids do to a diet? I can tell you what they’ve done for me; I want to eat…constantly. I’ve had to be careful or I’ll gain back all of the weight that I initially lost. Prior to the lap-band surgery, I was 248 pounds. I lost 46 and have gained back 15. The lap-band helps with portion control, but you still have to eat right and exercise, and as you lose weight, the band has to be filled with saline to tighten around the stomach. This is in order for the portion control to remain correct. I haven’t been able to have a fill in several months, and my doctor recommends that I don’t until we’re over this hurdle. The main reason is because when you have the lap-band, you can’t, how do I put this politely, be effectively nauseous. One does not wish to choke when coughing up part of their lung.

Currently I’m on week two of another round of steroids. I’m hoping this will finally do the trick and that I can get a fill on the lap-band. If not, I’ll continue to do what I have been doing, eat well, exercise and work it like a big girl. (No pun intended) There is NOTHING easy about having surgery, and there is no easy way to lose weight. If you’ve been there, you know what I’m saying. I’ve made a commitment to myself to do this, for me and honestly for my children. I’m healthy in spite of the pounds I carry and I want to be healthier still. When I started this blog, I did it for me and for all of the rest of us who understand how difficult being overweight, and losing weight is. So no matter your decision or the path you go down to lose weight, here’s to you. May your choices be healthy and may we all get where we want to be!

I Want To Eat My Way Through North America With A Side of Fries

It’s that kind of a day. It started out normal enough, the radio alarm went off, and as usual I didn’t hear it. Then I rushed to just wake up while my brain downloaded all that had to be done in the day. Get the kids up, get the little one dressed, throw the cereal in the bowl, gather the supplies and food for their day, pull on some clothes, and head out the door. That was just the morning routine. Things looked to be on schedule until the van decided to go off line, and that threw the hitch in my giddy-up which sparked an argument between da hubby and me.

Being in a marriage is hard work, throw in children with diametrically opposed schedules and some days it seems impossible. Add to that, jobs, housework, a teaching schedule for music students along with the need to create and find time to write and well, sometimes the day can really start out with a bang. Today I’m wishing it was Bang-Bang Shrimp from the Bonefish Grill. I want to run into a mountain of carbs and well, carbs. Its times like these I remember going to my mother, as a child, with tears in my eyes and she would soothe and (honest to goodness sometimes it seemed magical) a dish would appear, heaped with pacifying delicacies. I’m not laying blame at the feet of my Mama, but even now when I’m stressed or “put out” I still turn to the solace of food. The problem with that is as soon as I’m finished tranquilizing myself, the guilt sets in as does the realization of the setback I’ve just caused myself in the weight loss department.

Someone once told me it’s not about what you eat; it’s about what’s eating you. Well dang. I’d have to go to psycho-therapy just to work out what’s eating me. Seriously, it is a valid statement and one that has me looking at other things to do to dissipate the stress. We all have stress; we all handle it in different ways. I have to figure a way to handle it and not turn to food. Writing helps, but when I can’t get to it because of a glitch or just the daily workings of life, I head to the refrigerator in an almost trance-like state. I don’t need to be bullied into different behavior like they do on weight loss shows. Those of us who have a hard time “fitting in” to a healthy weight already know how it feels to be bullied, and most of it comes from ourselves. I can show you seven ways from sideways to make myself feel bad without help from anyone else. In a world where stress is everywhere along with size zero models, it’s enough to make you grab the double mocha latte and hide in a corner.

I followed the hubby out to the garage for repair, both of us slightly worse for wear but still here, still getting by and still committed (I'm sure he thinks I should be) to keep on going until the next silly thing pops up and then keep on going after that. It reminds me of the conversation between Dory, in “Finding Nemo,” and Marlin when he feels he’s reached his breaking point:

Dory: “Hey there, Mr. Grumpy Gills. When life gets you down do you wanna know what you’ve gotta do?”

Marlin: “No I don’t wanna know.”

Dory: “Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming, swimming, and swimming.”

Maybe, if I “just keep swimming” I’ll find different ways to get through the stress. For now, I’ll just leave those Bang-Bang Shrimp for Dory.

(Current stats on the weight loss, down another pound for a total of five pounds lost. Honestly, I think it was because I was sick this weekend.)

CAUTION! Cinching Capris and Celebrations Conflict!

Well nuts, or better yet, ice cream cake, tenderloin medallions topped with blue crab meat and béarnaise sauce, freshly steamed asparagus, baked sweet potato loaded with butter, sugar and cinnamon, and let’s not forget the cheese cake, chicken salad, pimento cheese, and ah…celebratory beverages. Admittedly, the cheese cake WAS low carb, it didn’t have a crust, but oh that creamy dream of dairy! No one can have just one slice. This is what was consumed, along with a breakfast or two, over a period of forty-eight hours at the best friend’s house while we reveled over her birthday weekend. As the old Alka-Seltzer commercial used to proclaim, “I can’t believe I ate the whole thing.”

I earnestly believe my capris were in a state of shock on Monday morning, and my digestive tract cursed me fluently with gurgles and moans. I’m not sure I’ve recovered yet.  The scales still show a four pound weight loss, but no more. Celebrations can bring your best laid plans to a standstill. Every congratulatory moment seems to abound with heaping amounts of tempting FOOD. Have a birthday? Here’s your cake. Anniversary? Dinner for two. Kid's party? We have pizza. Getting married? Here’s your reception with the sit-down dinner. Oy! Even if I didn’t have a love affair with food, how could I resist, it’s all around me. (Yes, it is indeed all around me, on my hips, my thighs…you understand.)

Here’s the deal. Since I’m not on a planned weight-loss regimen like Weight Watchers or Jenny Craig, it’s imperative that I make healthy choices and work out as often as my mad, mad world will let me. I really don’t want to pay to weigh in somewhere, or have different food in my household for me and something else for the rest of the family. There will always be celebrations accented with heaps and heaps of food. I should be able to step up to the plate, and load it, if you will (‘cause you KNOW I will), with a reasonable amount of decent choices.

The key is balance. I’m still teeter-tottering, but I won’t stop trying. I took a bit of a downward slide this past weekend and I’d be a liar if I told you I didn’t enjoy it. Still, the best part of the entire weekend was being with my friend, and I want to share as many celebrations with her as I can. If I can keep the perspective as to what is important, maybe I can keep a little cake too.

Do You See Me Now?

The July 4^th weekend is behind me, or rather, perhaps, now a part of my behind. It’s been a rough few days of cookouts and rich foods, starting with Saturday. We went to the birthday party of a friend of ours, and food was everywhere. When you’re trying to cinch in the belt it seems you can’t escape tables loaded with cascading treats, but I wouldn’t have missed Carl’s birthday in spite of the temptations. He was in our wedding 25 years ago when I still had a waist and I was a little hesitant about going to the party because, well, I’m not the girl I used to be. Being (what some have called) a larger-than-life-size-girl in a size zero world can shake your confidence and make you second guess yourself.

I would have loved to go to the party thin and svelte, but would that really have made a difference to those who invited my husband and me? There have been occasions when I’ve put too much importance into what others have said regarding the state of my, um, abundant curves. Once upon a long ago, I invited a co-worker to come to my home. When she walked into the door she commented about how very neat my home was and that she didn’t expect such tidiness since “most large people are sloppy.” Well shoot. I could have saved myself the time and trouble of cleaning up the trash heap and putting out the pig for her had I known her opinion! I told her I’d be glad to mess things up if that would make her more comfortable and laughed it off, but it hurt. You can bet your sweet bippy I never invited her over again. Then there was this one lady, who I thought was beautiful say, “You’d be lovely if you’d just lose a little weight.” The thing is I always thought I was pretty good, and in my own way, pretty where it counted. Even family can sneak in a quick jab like the time I was asked why I was trying this or that to lose weight “when you’ll only gain it all back.” Being overweight is not for wimps. I’ve discovered that you have to have a pretty good idea of who you are and a sizable (you’d think I could come up with a different word) backbone to have any kind of self-esteem.

On the other hand, I do have the support of true friends and family through all my ups and downs on the scale. That rocks my world and helps me handle the “good intentioned ones” who have made the comment that they hope I find myself as I go through this journey. Now I’m not saying that the weight loss won’t boost my ego or self-esteem, but for crying out loud…I’ve been here all along! I know who I am, I really do. It’s not like the pounds have given me amnesia. I can tell you that with or without the weight, I know me. I know that music sends me. It’s the one true thing that sends my soul flying, and that my voice soars with or without extra weight on my bones. I know that writing is a part of me. Every line, every word, whether it’s put together coherently or not, is right out of my being and it can sometimes tilt my cup to overflowing. I know that love surrounds me and makes me a better person than I would be without it and that my children see the real, nitty, gritty, picky, loving Mama that is me every single day (bless their hearts).

The size of my tush doesn’t define who I am as a person or how I should be treated. How I act, how I interact and how I show empathy, kindness and love are evidence of the real me.  I’m messy, and funny, and frantic, and moody with hot flashes. I’m a cynical romantic who loves melodrama, all genres of music, and I still cry at Hallmark commercials at the tender age of 51. I never lost myself, I just added a few inches on the framework. I’ve always been here. Losing weight might make me last a little longer, move a little faster, breathe a little easier and spend less money on clothes, but if the figure is all you see, you never really saw me in the first place. I don’t need to drop pounds to find myself, but if you have a little extra will power to spare so I can pass by the next round of holiday food, I’ll take it.

Forever On the Hips

In the movie “Steel Magnolias” the characters of Clairee and Truvy are discussing the state of the Mayor’s wife’s features as she is dancing at a wedding reception. The conversation goes as follows:

Clairee: “Looks like two pigs fightin’ under a blanket."

Truvy:   “I haven’t walked out of my house without lycra on these thighs in twenty years.”

Clairee:  “That’s because you were brought up right.”

I think I may have been channeling that scene this past Saturday. I was honored to be a bridesmaid (at my delicate age) at my lovely friend Lea’s wedding. I wanted to do her proud and look my best. Given that I’m nowhere close to my goal weight, I thought I’d give Spanx a whirl. This supposed light-weight girdle has been the talk of stars and TV anchors for quite a while, and so encouraged, I bit the bait. I think it would have been less painful to have had liposuction without an anesthetic, but what do I know?

At 8:30 in the morning my hair was done, make-up in place and my dress was pressed and ready to wear. I had to be at Lea’s home by 9:00 to help her with her wedding gown, and I had saved the putting on of the Spanx until the last possible moment. I should have given myself another two hours. Confidently placing both legs into the Spanx, I began to pull, and pull, and strain and, did I mention pull? By the time I had them to my waist (and these were the “high tops”), I had sweat all of the make-up off my face and was close to passing out. When I finally had them completely on I felt like a trussed chicken. To top off my um…torture, I had decided to wear the minimizer bra. I couldn’t help but wonder where all this suppressed flesh had gone. I kept turning in circles like a cat chasing its tail while I looked in the mirror. Surely there was a balloon of fat sticking out somewhere.

I couldn’t find evidence, or any bubble of fat escaping from the sides or tops of the devices I was wearing, but I did notice changes. My dress seemed to drape a little looser, but what had happened to my derriere? Instead of having buttocks, I had gone to BUTTOCK! IT looked like a shelf had attached itself to my backside. I was close to hysterics! As I started to bend over to put on my shoes, I was reminded of something my girlfriend Evelyn told me. My Mama once told her, “Don’t ever wear a girdle, once you start, you’ll never stop.” Funny, Mama never mentioned that to me. I was puffing like a steam engine and I couldn’t bend over. This was going to be one interesting day.

The wedding went off without a hitch. It was lovely, just like the bride and I was proud to have been included in her most special day. I have to say I walked down the aisle before her with my head held high, mostly because the Spanx give you excellent posture. If you try to bend, something will snap. That presents a problem with the whole sit down and eat portion of the reception. And eating while wearing Spanx? Not sure that I would recommend it. The food felt like cannon balls being stuffed into too narrow a shaft. Going to the bathroom was out of the question. It would have taken me an hour to undo and then "do-up" my trusses. I’d have missed all the good parts of the reception. I looked longingly at the knife when the bride and groom were cutting the cake. I imagined the relief I would feel if someone would just cut me out of the vise encasing me.

For seven hours I wore the Spanx. When I returned home it took almost as much time to get them off as it did to put them on. I had seam lines permanently etched on my body. I can say without a doubt that I’ll be redoubling my efforts to lose weight now. I never want to shove, pull, push, or stuff my body into a pair of Spanx ever again. Breathing is seriously underrated, not to mention sitting down. I think I’ll go burn those suckers now, but the seam lines look like they’ll be forever on my hips.

Wardrobe Malfunctions

The last time I saw the inside of a gym was sometime in the mid-to-late 90’s before my daughter was born. I was in an aerobics class and loved it. There was a good mix of guys and gals, and we wore t-shirts and sweat pants, or shorts for our workout. I do recall seeing leg warmers and shiny leotards, but they were few and far between. That in mind, I donned a comfortable, clean t-shirt and shorts, and headed to the gym. I felt good about my choice in clothing, until I looked around the room.

Where do these cute, tiny, little workout clothes come from, and dear Lord, do I have to invest in a new wardrobe just to work out? Some of the women wear the little sports bras with midriff cut camisoles over them. (Let me just say that these women had the body for it, and if I could, maybe I would dress that way. I still wonder how this actually enhances exercise.) Should I attempt this style of dress I would look like a link sausage that ruptured in the middle. I only saw one woman dressed in a t-shirt and capri length sweats, and while she was trim and neat in her dress; she was also over retirement age. Not only did the clothes catch my attention but I noticed that full make-up, and jewelry, appeared to be worn.

If I were to wear make-up during my workout it would end up on my knees, so what’s up with that?  The jewelry; well my wedding ring and watch never come off, but to have a couple of necklaces and HUGE hoop earrings on just seems a bit overdone, don’tcha think? If I came into the gym wearing just one of the necklaces I saw, I would have a black eye and a sturdy rash around my neck. I had no idea that the gym was a fashion center. It seems that just being comfortable is not done. Shoot, it’s bad enough that “What Not To Wear” (the style guru show on TLC) won’t even let women run to the grocery store with shorts and t-shirts; now we have to dress to impress in the gym.

While I don’t intend to look like a photo from “People of Wal-Mart” (and hey, I admit to buying there...Budget, ya know), I’d like to think that being clean and comfortable meet the criteria for workout clothes. I’m sorry, but it was all too distracting when I heard the clank, clank, clank, of necklaces bouncing up and down that the lady on the elliptical next to me was wearing. I’m afraid I’ll have to be on standby to give first aid, or call 911 when she gets hung up in the machine. I’m beginning to understand why some opt for a home gym; the convenience of it and the lack of having to look like a fashion plate are a major plus.

Ah well, all of this and getting in shape too. Still, I think I’d better brush up on my first aid skills. There were a couple of guys who almost lost their balance this week, trying to run flat out on the treadmill while sneaking glances at “Necklace Lady.”  The gym is more of an adventure than I ever thought it would be, with or without potential wardrobe malfunctions.