When I woke up, Fat Me was back.
The High School Girl jeans I had no business buying in the first place are threatening to bail on me if I continue to, well…. grow.
So, fine. Less 7 Layer Burritos, more lettuce. Good. It would serve me well to put the brakes on the food truck currently barreling down Lazy Street.
And I sure don’t want to start erasing the proverbial line of denial in the sand concerning the acceptable number on the bathroom scale, then drag my fat ass five feet further down the sand, and have to draw a new line with my toes because I can’t even get up to get a stick because I’m so fat. I don’t want that. I have boundaries.
But here’s the thing.
I really like Fat Me.
Oh, I like Skinny Me, too. I love her! She is like my Funky Cool cousin who swoops in for a visit every few years. I never know how long she is gonna stay. I like to stare at her. She is fun, exotic, sexy, and temporary. She always ends up leaving me behind, with Fat Me. (Skinny Me does this weird thing, too, where she leaves her clothes behind. I never know if I should keep them. Seems rude to throw them away. What if she comes back and wants to wear them?)
But Me and Fat Me are cool. Cooler than ever, maybe. Because I recognize that she is more than the result of food from paper bags, and poor motivation.
I’ve reached the Age of Real Woman Fat.
There is something so Post-High School about having reached my own personal Age of Real Woman Fat. It’s is a definitive door being slammed shut on that slimy chapter in life. Yes, high school was an obscenely long time ago, but those critical three years remain, in many ways, the touchstone against which we (I?) tend to measure everything in life.
I’m a lot less -shy/loose/uptight/fearful/angry/egotistical/clueless/messy/wasted/insert issue here - than I was in high school.
It’s a whole new world now that I look like I could be the mother of High School Me.
The Age of Real Woman Fat also marks the end of wild abandon in Forever 21’s. Never say never, but I certainly tread lightly in malls these days. I am now (mostly) a Window Shopper in Claire’s Boutique. I am a Voyeur into Never Never Again Land.
I’m not saying I am yet charting a new course for Chico’s. I’m saying that most women living in the Age of Real Woman Fat look terrible in Clothes for Tweens. And I need to heed that truth. It’s time.
And so be it! For the dawning of the Age of Woman Fat is concurrent with The Decade of Gravity Jowls and Hey, Now, Time for Life Insurance! In such rocky terrain, I’d best be wearing my Grown-Up Cleats. And I have found that Grown-Up Cleats have never looked good with anything bought from stores playing Macklemore on the soundsystem.
#AoWF, ladies!!!! Own it! Join me!
Taking on your Lady Jiggle can be so liberating! There comes a moment when the impact of gravity can only be (temporarily) pushed back by a rigorous exercise program, and no way to that, right?
Besides, the Age of Real Woman Fat is Mother Nature's way of inviting us into her bosom with open arms: a return to Femininity. We are pulled back from the self-conscious jaws of that gawkward skating rink body of adolescence. (New made up word alert: Gawkward = Gawky + Awkward)
These days, when I look in the mirror, there is recognition: my form has a calling of its own. As a Mom, I now carry the same crackly jelly belly I recognize from my own mother’s midriff. I was eye level to those captivating stretch marks for years. They are familiar. Her abdomen, laced with its straps of pink, red and brown tracks and valleys, is a map of my origin. There is a kind of passing the torch of war wounds from belly to belly, and that feels good and right.
There is, too, a standard schlock pulsing in the undercurrent of every “woe is me” anecdote about the effect of aging on…..well… it sounds something like this; “Hey, what happened to m’perky tits?”
Well I can only speak for myself, but mine had the life sucked out of them by a teeny tiny baby boy, and as a result, they keep more of my chest warm in the winter than ever before. And while even semi-decent bras do their part in maintaining the illusion of boobs as buoys, under all that pretense and posturing, they are flippy and floppy and ready for their close-up, Mr. Rembrandt.
In my mind, I am beginning to resemble the classic figure that inspired countless paintings throughout the ages: women with leaves encircling their heads of long flowing hair, reclining on walls, holding bunches of grapes. And I am only beginning to see how freaking beautiful we are.
Bout time, eh?
Oh well. As with everything, all in due time.
See, I finally figured out that Mother Nature ain’t gonna drop or change her first name just because we are desperate to still look like our high school selves when we finally outrun our high school selves. Ya dig? So, I’m going with it.
I only run into trouble when I start borrowing the clothes Skinny Me left behind. (Brain: Just don’t look at the mirror from too much of a side angle, self. You kind of have three sets of boobs on your back, now. Or at least you do in that shirt. So …)
It is usually a photo that jolts me back into reality. And the offending shirt worn in the picture, the one that sucked my soul out, is usually garbage bound soon after that. Like it’s the problem.
But without all those pesky clothes covering things up? Frankly, it’s all rather sexy.
I know that Skinny Me will probably return, someday. (She tends to show up right when life derails. It’s weird, her timing.) And when we are alone, I will probably secretly bad mouth Fat Me behind her back. But that’s just because I will want Skinny Me to stick around a bit longer this time around.
She won’t, though.
So that's my piece, and that's my peace. Thank you for taking the time to read my silly words. It means the world. Carry on...
Old Single Mom
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