I’m back down to fighting weight. Back to the weight I started at 19 months or so ago when Peanut was less than a pea. “Yahoo!” you yell. “It must be so nice to fit into all those clothes that have been sitting patiently in your drawers waiting for this day to arrive!” “Let’s celebrate!” “Let’s have a fashion show!” “Let’s have a cosmo!” [That last one was Julie.]
Not so much, people. Quit yer yellin’. For, while the numbers match up, the body absolutely does not. Things are wider (How the heck do shoulders of all things get wider? Can you tell me? Someone, please tell me.), things are…um…flatter, torsos are longer, and hips are…well…ready for more children. Nothing and I repeat nothing fits from “before” except some stretchy undies. Goodness. My beloved tshirts have been donated to the Little Blonde One and most pants are living new lives as Market bags. Some favorites still lounge in the dresser…mocking me…reminding me of what once was and how cool I used to dress.
It reminds me of a story. Like to hear it? Here it goes:
Once upon a time, Mandi decided to marry Jeff and asked me to be a bridesmaid in their wedding. [This was the beginning of a long stint as a professional bridesmaid for me.] Across the street from our apartment was a sweet little bridal shop where we were to be fitted for dresses. It is, if you can imagine, everything a small Texas bridal shop should be… filled with silk and tulle and tiaras and moms and mom-in-laws and bored cousins and mirrors. Lots of mirrors. Our particular dress was only available in the shop in a size 12, “But hunny, jus’ put it on so we kin get an idea of the measurin’ and such.” [It should be noted that all Texas women, once they reach the age of 65, receive the “Gramma Drawl”: sweet as honey and loud as a bullhorn. They also shrink to about 4 feet tall.] Fine. So I’ll put the dress on. And I’ll stand on this here little podium and try to avoid the spotlight that seems to be beaming down from above. I’ll look in one of the 400 hundred mirrors surrounding me, and I’ll let you measure and gather and pin and adjust. Go ahead. Be quick. Like a bunny.
I stand there for what seems like hours… with brides-to-be shuffling past in their Cinderella gowns… with sweet lil’ ‘ol Margaret writing down numbers and checking her sizing papers. She is serious about her work. She knows that Southern bridesmaids are future brides or cake servers based solely on how she makes their dress fit. She knows she is God in this moment. She finally stops, removes her glasses (on a beaded chain), and comes around to face me.
“Well, Darlin’,” she all but yells up to me in her sweet little voice, “I jus’ don’ know what we’re gonna do with you! You’re a 2 on top and 10 on bottom!”
Yes, ma’am. Good Lord. Could you say that a little louder? I don’t think the shoppers over in the Super Wal-Mart heard you. Can I be saved? Is there a dress for me out there? Can you help me, Margaret?
She could and she did and, remarkably, I was not nekid at Mandi and Jeff’s wedding. That dress did nothing for me, though. I’m sure Margaret did the best she could, but I waited a good 6 or 7 more years before I was even maybe possibly gettin’ hitched. But, I never served cake. That always was [and still is] a rule for me.
And so, happy weekend to you all…whatever size you may be.
We love you here at TexasNorth.