Requiem For My Waistline
Ah, Tori’s waist, we hardly knew ye…
(NOT me.)
Let me start by saying that, yes, I realize I’m not a big hulking behemoth, and I am not writing this so everyone will feel compelled to leave a comment saying, “What are you talking about, you look fine!” I’m not delusional, I am so not one of those little eensy women that sit around and go, “Oh dear, my size zero pants are feeling a little tight, I”M SO FAT, YA’LL!!!” I realize I am normal sized for my age, I’m not obsessed with my weight, I don’t go on crazy diets. I don’t even own a set of scales because I only weigh myself when I’m pregnant. I’m not going to have lipo or a tummy tuck, or start running marathons or hire a personal trainer. I don’t sit around and lament my lost youth, or try to look like a teenager by dressing all age-inappropriately… (Well, ok, you’ve got me there.)
But having said all that… holy hell on a biscuit, what happened to my waist???!!!
(Again? NOT me.)
Don’t judge me harshly, anyone with half an ovary knows exactly what I’m talking about. I swear, I was minding my own business and then one day I looked down and the muffin-top, it runneth over! I don’t know what happened. The only word to describe it (and this is not a word I am fond of) is ‘pooch’. I have a ‘pooch’ where my waist used to be. I am poochy, I have poochitude, there is poochiness in my pants.
It’s very disturbing.
Now don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I have been a flat-belly at any time in my life since I was about 13 these last few years, but dang, this is different. This is like I am suddenly sporting a pre-menopausal flesh-colored fanny pack in front of me– yet I can’t seem to find the zipper so I can’t even put my lipstick, wallet and a couple of spare kleenexes in it! It seems to serve no useful purpose at all, since apparently there’s not a lovely baby hiding in there. Or a hamster. Or a million dollars. It just sits there, jiggling slightly when I move, silent mocking me as I pull on my yoga pants to go to my third Zumba class of the week as if to say, “Oh hi. Yep, still here!”
(Can’t even begin to tell you how much this is NOT ME.)
I think the culprit here is gravity. Well, that and the fact that I’m over 50. OK, barely, but still. And of course there’s the ever-popular genetics to blame it on, too. My mom and my sisters are all healthy and active, but I have heard them complain of The Pooch over the years. Mom would call it “my middle”, as in “My weight is OK, it’s just my middle.” Yeah, I get that now. I guess I will have to learn to graciously accept the fact that I will never again TUCK A SHIRT into low rider jeans and then actually ADD A BELT–just like I am learning to accept the fact that I seem to gain one chin every decade, kind of like rings on a tree.
(BTW, in spite of my protests about not being all vain and shallow, I’m serving notice here and now that if I ever do have any kind of cosmetic surgery it will definitely be chin-related! Oh yeah, I could probably lose like, two or three of them before anyone would even notice. Hold up, idea forming, here’s a thought– maybe I can get some plastic surgeon to offer his services for free and I could live-blog it! And put big ol’ Before and After pictures on my sidebar, right next to the Google ads! Any of you readers out there handy with a scalpel? Or a Flowbee?)
But I digress. Meanwhile, back at my pooch.
In conclusion, this post doesn’t have any big point to it (do they ever?) except to use my small public forum to officially announce that as A Woman Of A Certain Age, I feel I have earned the right to say that though yes, God looks at the inside and though yes, I am eternally grateful to be healthy and happy and living in a democracy, the bald-faced truth of it all is that certain aspects of the aging process just… suck.
That is all. **bows deeply**
“I got yer six-pack right here, baby!)
(Still NOT ME. Yet.)
