From 2009 - 2011, I was consistently running, jogging, okay,
shuffling at least four times a week, except during the winter (I’m dormant
during cold air months). I even changed my diet and watched calories carefully
counting them one by one while they awaited clearance. I lost a lot of weight.
My skirts got shorter, my shirts shrunk to child size and local bars became
familiar haunts. I may have hit send on some risqué selfies. I may have said “Yes,
We Can!” more times than an Obama rally. I once wore my ten-year-old daughter’s
gingham plaid shorts with a nostalgic tee of Linus and Snoopy to an adult
nightclub. The thing about it is, I knew in the midst of all these “choices”
that they were bad, but skinny me said, “IDGAF.”
Worse than my questionable wardrobe, was the sheer size of my
head. Medium me has a medium sized head; little me has a Sasquatchian sized
dome. Whenever I looked in the mirror, I became angered. How come nobody told me my noggin was the size of intergalactic
spaceship? And that wasn’t even the kicker. All in all, if I could go back
to the size I was in 2010 when people were fawning all over my weight loss, I
wouldn’t. I could come to grips with my age, and just say no to poom poom
shorts; I could even deal with being a walking bobble head; but it’s my breasts
that make me lose all desire to be a weight that would make a model only fast
for a fortnight.
I have a body that gains and loses weight proportionately. I
would love to be considered slim thick, but I’m afraid my only options are slim
or thick. I did a lot of squats to
hang onto my ghetto bootie, but there was no exercise that I could do to hang
onto the jugs that once adorned my chest. I recalled getting slender in college
because I did a lot of walking. The campus was large (biggest school in North
America large), at age 23 my metabolism was still affable, it was pre-K.I.D.S.,
and the pounds effortlessly melted away. I didn’t mind at all being on the Itty
Bitty Titty Committee. Flat perky breasts are a win in my book. So I had no
idea that at age 43, when I vowed to get in shape and took decided measure to
do so, that my chest wouldn’t flatten or even shrink; but instead deflate like sad balloons languishing
after the party is long over and the last guest has been ushered into the dawn.
You know the balloons that you cannot pop? You squeeze them, then try stomping
them, but to no avail. So you just put them in the trash as the last scintilla
of helium cries freedom. Yes, that was me. Hot MILF with teats. I refuse to
relive that singular horror ever again in life. So, if I ever lose a
substantial amount of weight again, I will have a substantial amount of money
to get a breast lift.
See, all the while, I was still a fat girl that lived inside
a curvy girl’s body that somehow had gotten thin. My goal was to lose enough
weight, so I could binge eat deserts. I lost 50 lbs., I binge ate desserts, winter
came (I’m dormant during cold air months), and I gained most of the weight
back. I know I didn’t think my strategy all the way through. But I’m glad to be
back; ample behind and bust in tow. I missed me, all of me with the ever
maturing wardrobe and the human sized head. I will probably never jog again at
a stride or even at an Auntie Shuffle. Not because I think I am the perfect
size – I’m not. My BMI says I’m overweight and my stomach is in agreement. But
now I want to lose the all American 10 – 15 lbs. I no longer want to fit my
tween’s jeans, and at age 46, I think walking into the summer sun at a brisk
pace will suffice. I recently went to have a mammogram, and the staff kept
calling me young and my breast tissue dense. My girls are back! Contextually, speaking that is. Ah, the joys of
being middle aged.
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| Me in the Middle - On the Committee in the 90's |
