I have a little secret to tell you. In the past couple of years, I have packed on almost twenty pounds. What do you mean, it’s no secret? Well, that’s very rude of you to have noticed and been snickering about it all along, because while I happily chunked up a pound a month, I had not. Not until the pounds ganged up and blockaded the free travel of zippers and belts that attempted to navigate the abdominal area and accomplish any border crossings.
One score years and one score pounds ago, I was not the pudgy, puffy-faced woman I have become today. Let me remind you that a score equals twenty, just in case you're rusty on your Gettysburg Address trivia. I needed to clarify that, lest you left this column thinking my decline began fifty years and fifty pounds ago.
I’m not sure what I’m doing differently now than in the past – eating? I'll admit it; I've never had great eating habits, and the spies who love me (my kids) will be the first to spill the beans...the jellybeans, that is, about my frequently poor nutritional choices. It's not like I've stopped exercising, because you can't stop something that you actually haven't started. Athletics always has been a bit of a foreign concept, although I did exhibit great bursts of speed as a high school student whenever I caught sight of the school bus for which I was perpetually late.
Should I blame that middle age “change in metabolism?” Too bad there are plenty of older women who dispel that notion. You know, the ladies with the perfectly sculpted bodies who are ubiquitous at graduations and summer weddings in their nearly backless sundresses, age spots and all. The age spots are not a matter of shame for them, they are, rather, a trophy that says, “Hey, I may be spotty, but I'm chiseled and sporty...what's your excuse, Potato Sack?” I try not to stand near women like this. That circumvents any painful comparisons. Also, it prevents the potentially more painful brushing of these women’s beveled scapulae that protrude from their backs.
If it’s the legendary change in metabolism, I deserve it. When I was younger, and slimmer, and already knew everything, I heard older women complaining about pounds “just sticking” to them. I always nodded sympathetically, but in the back of my mind, I wondered why they couldn't just lay off the Twinkies a bit. As a reward for those cruel thoughts, I must now do penance like the Ancient Mariner. Instead of wearing an albatross around my neck, I just wear an assortment of Twinkies around my midsection.
I can’t blame Twinkies, but discounted holiday candy and cookies are major weaknesses. I always chuckle when I see jellybeans labeled as a “fat-free food.” Free of fat, maybe. Full of sugar, definitely. But food? Doubtful. Doubtful, albeit delicious – just not at all nutritious, and very calorie-dense. Jellybeans are, however, very effective in keeping you awake during the wee hours of the night when the house is quiet and still, and you think you are going to accomplish something by staying up late all by yourself when there are no spies to monitor what you’re eating, and oooh, could they have some? That's when other, sensible women are assisting their metabolism by getting a good night's sleep, in addition to resisting the urge to ingest extra calories merely by the loss of consciousness that accompanies that sleep. I should stop buying discount candy, but some people can't pass up a bargain.
So, age and bargains have formed a coalition against me. The only way for me to do battle is to modify and pay attention to what I eat and when I eat, and then start exercising. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work? My current regimen includes vigorous jaw exercises (eating or yelling at kids) and my weekly finger workout as I type out this column. That is often done late, late at night, and therefore has to be accompanied by the jaw working out on a few late night snacks.
Last year, a neighbor of mine loaned me an exercise video. When your neighbor loans you a tape to encourage you to exercise, either that person is exceptionally caring and observant, or she is getting worried about people who are starting to crowd the neighborhood, all by themselves.
I'm going to say Tanya was of the observant variety. I myself hadn't noticed a problem until I could no longer zip up any of my pants. I had managed by thinking that, as long as I didn't plan to bend or breathe too much, I could still fit. Dollar bills had to be wedged into the pockets, in much the same way as scholars talk about trying to slip a credit card in between the blocks of the ancient pyramids. (Thousands of years of holding their breath, and it still can't be done.)
I was reluctant to get bigger pants, because that is an admission that you need to move up in size, which is not the same feeling as moving up in the world. It means you are not only going to be more comfortable while you are bigger, you are also now comfortable about being bigger.
Join me next week for the conclusion. (Riveting, I know.) Just don't hold your breath, unless it's because of your pants.
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