Even Formerlies who know there’s no such thing as a magic bullet still pray to get hit with one.
Since that’s not likely to happen, I have one thing to say to my old friend metabolism: You do what you have to do. I respect your choices, even if I don’t agree with them. Yes, I’ll pay attention to what I eat—I’m plenty vain and health-conscious enough to do that. I’ll keep exercising and eating right, within reason, for God’s sake. But you know what? If enjoying my life means forgoing the skinny jeans (which didn’t look good on me in 1982, the first time they were instyle), I think I can live with that. You hear that, metabolism? I’m moving on. And you can keep the Indigo Girls CDs, even though they were MINE in the first place. Someone has to take the high road. Besides, I can download the good songs.
10
Minor Miracle
P redictably, a few years ago, my Formerly husband and I went in for the all-inclusive resort family vacation we thought we’d never take. All of a sudden, the upside of a Kidz Club and a pool with a waterslide outweighed the fact that we had turned into the supremely uncool pair that we swore we’d never be on our honeymoon, when we climbed Mt. Etna with nothing but a couple of water bottles the day before it erupted.
All this to say I had to go swimsuit shopping. The only thing I had in my drawers were bikinis, which were ill-advised before I had twins. I had never had a flat belly, but as a younger woman, I sincerely thought it was a good use of my time and energy to do a zillion ab exercises and, what’s more, to consciously try and hold my navel to my spine all day long at the beach or the pool so I could wear a bikini. As a Formerly, I now have way too many things to think about to waste one second mapping out exactly how to rise from a towel without accentuating my belly rolls. What’s more, noamount of not breathing or not eating would make my tummy flat. Yes, it was definitely time for a one-piece.
I went to a large department store, figuring on a wide selection. An older, career saleswoman approached and asked if she could help me, and I told her I was open to anything, but no bikinis. She nodded knowingly.
I felt as if she were a flight attendant walking me slowly and cruelly past First Class, through Business, past the comfy bulkhead row, to my nasty seat by the toilet with the broken lock in the back of the plane. She steered me beyond the pretty prints to an area where the suits were mostly brown or black and had words like “miracle” and “tamer” and “molded cups” in their descriptions. She was a “helper.” Had I asked for the serious supportwear, that would have been one thing. But I hadn’t. It was as if a waiter brought me a Diet Coke, when I’d merely ordered a cola.
I looked back over at the sea of suits we’d passed, told her these “miracles” were a bit much for me and declined her further service. I didn’t think my body needed to be
too
tamed or molded, and I was saving any miracles I might have coming for if, God forbid, one of my children got sick.
My remaining choices, however, after eliminating the miracles and the bikinis, hardly made me want to go on a bathing suit buying bonanza. In fact, these paltry options seemed to create more problems than they solved. There were the one-pieces meant for serious lap swimming, with the high necks, boobs smushed down and the racer-backs. Those look brutal on everyone. I tried a few “tankinis,”which are like the assisted-living facilities you go to before you need the round-the-clock nursing-home-type care of the Miraclesuit. The separate top and bottom allow for ease of peeing—always appreciated—but otherwise it’s unclear why you’d bother. Do the swimsuit manufacturers want to gradually get us used to the idea that our two-piece days are ending, and see the tankini as some kind of a step-down system? I suppose by revealing just a sliver of tummy at the bottom, one hopes to create the
Since that’s not likely to happen, I have one thing to say to my old friend metabolism: You do what you have to do. I respect your choices, even if I don’t agree with them. Yes, I’ll pay attention to what I eat—I’m plenty vain and health-conscious enough to do that. I’ll keep exercising and eating right, within reason, for God’s sake. But you know what? If enjoying my life means forgoing the skinny jeans (which didn’t look good on me in 1982, the first time they were instyle), I think I can live with that. You hear that, metabolism? I’m moving on. And you can keep the Indigo Girls CDs, even though they were MINE in the first place. Someone has to take the high road. Besides, I can download the good songs.
10
Minor Miracle
P redictably, a few years ago, my Formerly husband and I went in for the all-inclusive resort family vacation we thought we’d never take. All of a sudden, the upside of a Kidz Club and a pool with a waterslide outweighed the fact that we had turned into the supremely uncool pair that we swore we’d never be on our honeymoon, when we climbed Mt. Etna with nothing but a couple of water bottles the day before it erupted.
All this to say I had to go swimsuit shopping. The only thing I had in my drawers were bikinis, which were ill-advised before I had twins. I had never had a flat belly, but as a younger woman, I sincerely thought it was a good use of my time and energy to do a zillion ab exercises and, what’s more, to consciously try and hold my navel to my spine all day long at the beach or the pool so I could wear a bikini. As a Formerly, I now have way too many things to think about to waste one second mapping out exactly how to rise from a towel without accentuating my belly rolls. What’s more, noamount of not breathing or not eating would make my tummy flat. Yes, it was definitely time for a one-piece.
I went to a large department store, figuring on a wide selection. An older, career saleswoman approached and asked if she could help me, and I told her I was open to anything, but no bikinis. She nodded knowingly.
I felt as if she were a flight attendant walking me slowly and cruelly past First Class, through Business, past the comfy bulkhead row, to my nasty seat by the toilet with the broken lock in the back of the plane. She steered me beyond the pretty prints to an area where the suits were mostly brown or black and had words like “miracle” and “tamer” and “molded cups” in their descriptions. She was a “helper.” Had I asked for the serious supportwear, that would have been one thing. But I hadn’t. It was as if a waiter brought me a Diet Coke, when I’d merely ordered a cola.
I looked back over at the sea of suits we’d passed, told her these “miracles” were a bit much for me and declined her further service. I didn’t think my body needed to be
too
tamed or molded, and I was saving any miracles I might have coming for if, God forbid, one of my children got sick.
My remaining choices, however, after eliminating the miracles and the bikinis, hardly made me want to go on a bathing suit buying bonanza. In fact, these paltry options seemed to create more problems than they solved. There were the one-pieces meant for serious lap swimming, with the high necks, boobs smushed down and the racer-backs. Those look brutal on everyone. I tried a few “tankinis,”which are like the assisted-living facilities you go to before you need the round-the-clock nursing-home-type care of the Miraclesuit. The separate top and bottom allow for ease of peeing—always appreciated—but otherwise it’s unclear why you’d bother. Do the swimsuit manufacturers want to gradually get us used to the idea that our two-piece days are ending, and see the tankini as some kind of a step-down system? I suppose by revealing just a sliver of tummy at the bottom, one hopes to create the
Similar Books
