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Odd Angles
Gut reaction: So I wanted to get a summer dress for a special outing. Who am I kidding; any outing for me is special. I decided to try Dulles Town Center. I usually avoid malls because I am claustro and where-did-I-park phobic. But I hoped that a large selection would eliminate the depression that follows the deadly combination of fluorescent lighting and full-length mirrors.
I found a nice (read: inexpensive) store and tried on a trendy, flowery number, which would have looked even better if that number was 6 or less. I sulked out of the fitting room with the dress over my arm.
Young employee: "How did that work out?"
Me: "Pretty dress; big gut."
Y.E., averting her gaze and disgust: "Uh, huh."
Me: "Thanks anyway."
"Trendy" is designer lingo for thin, young and thin. I expected the baby-doll fashion would hide my abdominal expansion, but it only enhanced the pregnancy illusion. At my age, baby-doll looks more like baby-YOU?! Take my word for it – I am no doll in that style, unless it's a before doll for a liposuction doctor.
Other dresses were too clingy. Then again, a gunny sack would be too clingy. Each time I tried on an outfit, I'd react aloud, saying things to myself like, "You've got to be kidding. ... Oh, that is horrid. ... What size is this?!" At one point a fitting room attendant whispered timidly, "Are you talking to me?"
I tried sucking in my stomach but ended up knocking the wind out of myself. I came to in the maternity department. I'm guessing Security dragged me there based on certain assumptions.
After a meal, my midline spread is even worse, inflating quicker than the ego of an “American Idol” contestant. If it's a particularly large dinner, for example, I will walk away looking like I'm five months along, carrying a bouncing bowl of ravioli.
On the way out of the mall I vowed to lose it – physically, not mentally (I already had the mental part taken care of). I kept that promise for five whole minutes, after which I found myself downing freebie Double Chocolaty Chip Frappuccinos in tiny plastic cups just outside Starbucks. I have no recollection of the event – chocolate has a hypnotic effect on me. If that barista knew the power she possessed, she could have made me cluck like a chicken every time I heard a doorbell.
When I complained about my predicament to a friend, she politely suggested I work on my abs. Others call it the "core." I'm not sure what happened to good old bellies, but I try to keep up with the times. So I told her that the last time I saw my abs was in Hawaii eight years ago. I think they ran away when I was at the all-you-can-eat luau. I'm still waiting to hear from the Westin Maui Lost and Found. As for my core, it migrated to my left ankle, which is in great shape, thank you.
To the outing I wore a skirt, loose blouse and "shaping" pantyhose that were so snug, they left rows of lines across my ... core ... for two weeks. On the positive side, my stretch marks were barely noticeable.
I recently bought a Pilates DVD, which is a whole other story. FYI: The nice (albeit giggling) woman at Best Buy said "Pilates" is not pronounced anything like "pirates." Who knew? Seems as though I'm quite good at embarrassing myself. Call it a gut instinct.
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