Fat Girl

One of the hidden benefits of being underemployed is that your diet and exercise program is built right in to your job.  This is especially true if:

1. You work in retail or food service, especially if either one involves roller skates;
2. You take public transportation, especially through neighborhoods where one does not linger in public, except when negotiating and/or engaging in commercial transactions;
3. Your laughably small, nobody-could-possibly-survive-on-this wages only allow for the consumption of 10/$1 ramen noodles and cheap red wine, and only in weeks when you don't need to buy toothpaste.

I have recently morphed from the state of underemployment that I have happily endured for the last six years, to a state of unemployment, the length of which is TBD.

 

I have gone from gulping down coffee, running for the train/likewise for the bus, up-and-down a million times-a-day, only enough time to scarf down a granola bar, too tired for dinner and so on, to a somewhat more "normal" (three meals a day, riding in cars) American existence, and...

 

...I have gained a few pounds.  Like, ten, maybe.

 

Which may not sound earth-shattering, especially with a Kardashian baby on the way, the Pope on the run, Taylor Swift singing with goats, shoulder pads coming back in style, etc., etc.  But to say "ten" would be to tell half the story.  I gained another seven when I went from my bookstore job to my desk job three years ago.  And my weight back then was five pounds heavier than when I was taking student groups on trips to mountainous places once a year, just for fun.

 

It all adds up, as was driven home to me when I bought my first pair of size 10 "stretch" jeans the other day.  A psychic shock that propelled me to seek answers in the primeval morass of my childhood.

 

I realize that many American women would envy a size 10.  This is because many American women (I am sorry, my sisters!) are larger than what any human female needs to be.  My international audience should not be confused by the number 10.  A size ten in the United States is pretty much a standard 12-14, as any woman in this country old enough to remember life before "The Gap" can tell you.

 

Still, I can still squeeze in to most of my size 8s and I know I'm not obese by anybody's calculations.  So what's the problem?  The problem is that I was a fat kid, with all the attendant problems of fat children, and a smart-ass, know-it-all-attitude which (that God!) has never left me, and which has endeared me to no one, ever.  I was also an intelligent kid, and it did not escape my attention that life got a hell of a lot more fun once the baby fat came off.  And since "fun" is my absolute number one goal in life, I have made damn sure that the baby fat didn't reincarnate as a middle-age spread.  A "fat kid" hangover never wears off.

 

Maybe I'm just getting my sea legs.  My body, given the lack of opportunity to eat during my underemployment years, may just be in "survival" mode, zealously conserving every calorie in the face of the imminent famine that, as I have assured it, is coming. 

 

I must admit, though, that it feels wonderful to have finally given in and "sized up" both in number and spandex-content.  My uterus no longer feels under siege; my muffin top is but a memory.  I find that I actually like slouchy sweaters and flowy tops.  My hair is finally settling in to a nice silver braid.

 

I can already think of one grandmother that I'm starting to resemble. 

 

But seeing as I no longer have to dress for work, and with a little creative flair for reinvention and what's left of my self-respect, "comfortable grandma" may actually come to be a viable fashion category for me, and may I inspire others.  I flatly refuse to go the Lululemon route, if that is my only alternative.  Better a comfortable grandma than a 21st-century suburban twit.

Another sign of impending granny-dom is that I'm giving more serious consideration to wearing trousers. (I hate the word "pants" which sounds even more vile when quacked with a Midwestern American accent. The same goes for "panties", and I prefer to use the more phonologically safe, "knickers".)   Anyway, linen trousers suddenly seem like a revelation to me.

 

The sad thing is that just two weeks ago, I finally had an epiphany and now I "get" heels.  During my last two weeks of work, I flew around the office on a pair of Rosalind Russell-style '40s pumps, feeling like a goddess, enjoying the air up there, and finding out that - just like with eye makeup and deodorant - people are nicer to you when you're wearing heels.  I had a very good time.

 

Now I will have to wait for an occasion when I'm not carrying a backpack.  Or a cat carrier.  O! the wasted years!

 

I find myself at a crossroads, and there is no doubt in my mind but that I am the master of my own destiny.  Will I have the discipline to eat healthy, and not unnecessarily?  Does my couch generate enough repulsive gravity to ensure that I will seek activities outside of its field?  Should I limit my food intake and pursue contrived opportunities for physical exertion i.e., "go to a gym"?  Or should I just join my more complacent compatriots, not ruling out Wild Cherry Pepsi as a spiritual experience?
 

I am aware that - given certain limits - the only place any of this will make any difference whatsoever is inside my own head.  Which, surely, could find something better to do.

 

Maybe I should just do a little readjustment on my self-image, and pay more attention to my nails.