Do people really like to be known as avid ‘film-goers’? Well, maybe ‘film-goers’ are alright because films sound so fancy - not like ‘movies’ at all really. And I think ‘films’ are considered to be on a different level, aren’t they? Sort of in the same way being an ‘adult’ (pronounced ah-DULT, of course) is not really the same thing as being a ‘grown-up’. Ah-DULT’s enjoy films as a brief respite from reading thick dusty novels, drinking brandy from warm snifters or smoking a pipe while playing the cello. It’s not really their main scene, as such, but if there’s something good on at the ‘cinema’ (read, Cineplex), something with subtitles and obscure symbolism then…Well, alright, old boy. Just this once, tut, tut!
I’m all for the high end movies as well - in fact here in Owen Sound we’re lucky enough to have a gallery that brings us to the cinema for some really thought-provoking films. They always seem to be available on a rainy Sunday afternoon, too, which sets the scene nicely. Through them I’ve seen some of my favourite movies - Hotel Rwanda, The Painted Veil, Dear Frankie (you really need to see this one, I promise you) - all alone in the dark and munching on chocolate almonds. Pure bliss. My only complaint is that the other ah-DULTs never seem to get snacks - who watches movies without snacks, I ask you?
So yes, I do enjoy ‘films’. But I really, really enjoy ‘movies’ too. Just as much as I enjoy books and music and warm brandy. Actually, I detest warm brandy, but you get my drift. There’s a certain artistic snobbery attached to film these days. It’s still not quite as bad as television, I hear, but it’s getting worse. Nobody wants to admit that their children watch television - which is what mine are doing right now, by the way - and if they do watch television it’s only PBS. Or the Discovery channel. Never more than 20 minutes a day at most. And never the Simpson’s. EVER!! I myself took the kids to see the Simpson’s movie. Read from that what you will.
A lot of people associate certain smells with their past, or certain music. I do that as well (oranges and sweet almonds make me think of my room in Switzerland; Danny Boy brings me back to my Grandpa’s funeral) - but there are also certain movies that evoke instant memories for me. Like ’Bridget Jones’ Diary’. It may sound cliché, but the first weekend my husband had taken the kids and I was completely alone for the first time in about 7 years, Bridget helped me. I watched it over and over again, (I think I even perfected her ‘All By Myself’ solo from the opening credits) not feeling any better or worse about my situation, just focused on where I was. Sitting on a couch that was now mine and mine alone, huddled under a quilt my Nana had bought me for my birthday. And watching Bridget finally find her Mr. Darcy at 33 or whatever. It made me feel - safe. And sort of strong.
Back further, when Callum was 2 and Ben was a newborn. Every morning at around 5 o’clock Callum would wake me up to go downstairs and watch 101 Dalmations. It was winter, the floors were cold and Callum was wearing his Winnie the Pooh slippers. Little Ben was curled up asleep, fleecy warm under our mutual blanket asleep. A light snow was falling and I was so tired I didn’t think I could carry on. But then I would hear Callum warble “Cruella Da Bil! Cruella Da Bil!” with his little lisp. And I could indeed carry on.
So many memories of mine come with a movie soundtrack - such as all of the women in my family sobbing wildly during “Steel Magnolias” (there’s that inexplicable sense of comraderie that comes from twenty women with snotty noses), or watching “Hallowe’en” with my boyfriend at 18 in the dark in my parent’s rec room (for obvious reasons) and the first time I watched “Stepmom” after my kids had a Stepmom. To see all of my un-named, slightly selfish fears acted out by Miss Susan Sarandon was…maybe not fun but noteworthy. The movies didn’t change anything for me, but they seemed to help me earmark moments I wanted for later. Moments like being a 15 year old girl who’s fighting with her step father. For the 10 000th time and she’s tired and misunderstood and a little lonely. But later, when she’s watching Out of Africa alone, her stepfather finds her. She knows he hates this movie, but he stays for the whole four hours. Just with her. To get to know what she likes, to let her know all that she is becoming to him without saying a word. That, right there, is show biz, folks.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Homecoming
When I was a little girl, we lived with my Nana and Grandpa. We’re good old Irish stock (read, incredibly prolific) who liked to host as many people as possible as often as possible. Nana was a baker, and she generally started on the pies, cakes, cookies and biscuits around Monday night. Apparently, the idea was that people always feel welcome if you‘ve baked them a pie - makes good sense to me. I loved that buzzing sensation running through the house before ‘the visitors’ descended. The excitement, the sense of ceremony attached to even the most mundane, the attention to detail. Changing of sheets, washing of floors, folding of laundry, mowing of lawn. We wanted to put our best foot forward for the visitors, only give them a glimpse of the shiniest part of our lives so that we could go back to eating off of t.v. trays in front of the television on Monday.
That’s the feeling our entire town has been experiencing for the last few weeks - longer if you’re a decent citizen. Which I’m not really. The gussying up of our entire town. I think we look quite pretty, don’t you? Our flowers are in full bloom, our lawns are mowed, our streets are clean. I didn’t get a chance to head down to the Farmer’s Market on Saturday, but I was half-expecting, half-hoping the vendors would all be wearing pink and blue bowties. In fact, I have half a mind to start baking a few pies for our visitors - it seems only cordial, don’t you think? Because we want to give these visitors - or ‘ the leavers’ as I like to call them - a great impression of our fair city. Or town, whatever we are. Rather like a jilted lover whose ex-boyfriend has come to town - you better get out the big guns, right? You’d better look your best, paste on a smile that says; “Really, we’re all doing just fine without you!” or “Go ahead - move to the big city! See if you like it any better there!” By the way, these were my suggestions for slogans rather than “The Sound is Calling You Home.” Not bad, eh? Apparently not the red carpet treatment we want to convey, though.
It’s funny, having all of these people coming home has made me think about my homecoming five years ago. How scared I was, how alone I felt, the strange sense of déjà vu that comes from things changing only slightly from your girlhood. But - it felt right. And warm. It’s been a while now, and the city (Seriously, is it a city? I can never remember.) and I have grown into a comfortable sort of marriage. The honeymoon period is over -the first rotten winter ended that phase - but I’m past the ‘seven year itch’ point. I no longer consider up and leaving at every bad turn, because this is where I’m supposed to be. Despite the rotten winters, the feeling of isolation that comes with every January 1st, the crippling absence of either a Gap or an Ikea…
Okay, before I scare ‘the leavers’ away again, I have a few ideas about some activities that have helped me settle in here. The may not be on the official itinerary, but they’ve certainly made me fall into a pretty deep and lasting love with the area - which for me is nothing short of a miracle (I’m not much of a settler). Here goes -
Head down to the River Café and sit in the window, drink a Chai latte and eat a toblerone shortbread cookie. Or any of our other fine cafes, actually; I just really like those cookies. Go for a walk early in the morning through the Mill Dam and past the Jubilee Bridge - be sure to go early enough that the dew is still fresh on the grass. I don’t know why it makes a difference but it does. Visit my curtains at Homeology - you see, I’ve been waiting for these particular curtains to go on sale for awhile now (front window, great floral pattern on a sort of creamy background) and I like to visit them. This is also a warning to let people know those particular curtains are spoken for! If you have children take them to the old-wishing-well-that’s-not-a-well at Harrison Park. Tell them that a troll lives at the bottom, and when they approach it to check (because they will) make distinct growling noises behind them. My Grandpa told me that thirty years ago and I believed him for twenty.
Mostly though, the one thing ‘the leavers’ should do is remember. Remember what it was like to live here, remember what you loved about it and why you still come home. And then you can head back to your big fancy city because we’re fine, just fine!!
That’s the feeling our entire town has been experiencing for the last few weeks - longer if you’re a decent citizen. Which I’m not really. The gussying up of our entire town. I think we look quite pretty, don’t you? Our flowers are in full bloom, our lawns are mowed, our streets are clean. I didn’t get a chance to head down to the Farmer’s Market on Saturday, but I was half-expecting, half-hoping the vendors would all be wearing pink and blue bowties. In fact, I have half a mind to start baking a few pies for our visitors - it seems only cordial, don’t you think? Because we want to give these visitors - or ‘ the leavers’ as I like to call them - a great impression of our fair city. Or town, whatever we are. Rather like a jilted lover whose ex-boyfriend has come to town - you better get out the big guns, right? You’d better look your best, paste on a smile that says; “Really, we’re all doing just fine without you!” or “Go ahead - move to the big city! See if you like it any better there!” By the way, these were my suggestions for slogans rather than “The Sound is Calling You Home.” Not bad, eh? Apparently not the red carpet treatment we want to convey, though.
It’s funny, having all of these people coming home has made me think about my homecoming five years ago. How scared I was, how alone I felt, the strange sense of déjà vu that comes from things changing only slightly from your girlhood. But - it felt right. And warm. It’s been a while now, and the city (Seriously, is it a city? I can never remember.) and I have grown into a comfortable sort of marriage. The honeymoon period is over -the first rotten winter ended that phase - but I’m past the ‘seven year itch’ point. I no longer consider up and leaving at every bad turn, because this is where I’m supposed to be. Despite the rotten winters, the feeling of isolation that comes with every January 1st, the crippling absence of either a Gap or an Ikea…
Okay, before I scare ‘the leavers’ away again, I have a few ideas about some activities that have helped me settle in here. The may not be on the official itinerary, but they’ve certainly made me fall into a pretty deep and lasting love with the area - which for me is nothing short of a miracle (I’m not much of a settler). Here goes -
Head down to the River Café and sit in the window, drink a Chai latte and eat a toblerone shortbread cookie. Or any of our other fine cafes, actually; I just really like those cookies. Go for a walk early in the morning through the Mill Dam and past the Jubilee Bridge - be sure to go early enough that the dew is still fresh on the grass. I don’t know why it makes a difference but it does. Visit my curtains at Homeology - you see, I’ve been waiting for these particular curtains to go on sale for awhile now (front window, great floral pattern on a sort of creamy background) and I like to visit them. This is also a warning to let people know those particular curtains are spoken for! If you have children take them to the old-wishing-well-that’s-not-a-well at Harrison Park. Tell them that a troll lives at the bottom, and when they approach it to check (because they will) make distinct growling noises behind them. My Grandpa told me that thirty years ago and I believed him for twenty.
Mostly though, the one thing ‘the leavers’ should do is remember. Remember what it was like to live here, remember what you loved about it and why you still come home. And then you can head back to your big fancy city because we’re fine, just fine!!
Grown-up Fears?
Since I’ve started spending more and more time alone, I’ve noticed a few things. First of all, the Simpson’s are always on some channel somewhere. And second of all - the mind came play some pretty convincing tricks on you. Sure there are little mind games you play with yourself in a room full of people (“Did that man in house wares just wink at me?” “Did that woman over there just sneer at me?”) and so on and so forth. But when you’re alone in a dark room at 2:15 am - the mind chicanery is simply off the charts.
We all dealt with the monster-under-my-bed mindset when we were small children, I’m sure. I know for a fact that there was something…sinister going on under my bed other than broken toys and forgotten socks. When my girlfriends and I had sleepovers together, our ‘monsters’ were our main source of entertainment (that and the tracks 6 through 9 of the ‘Grease’ soundtrack). We would gratefully confess to our deepest, darkest secrets and eat dill pickle chips in the dark. Some of these stories stay with me still. One friend in particular - we’ll call her Shannon because that was her name - told me she was sure that there was a man with a machete living in her basement. He would wait until the whole family was asleep and trace his machete around the edges of their beds, lopping off any limbs that may hang over the edge of the mattress. To this day I still sleep in a neatly tucked ball, making sure not to drape over the sides in any way - after all, one can never be too sure, right?
My ‘monster’ was not quite as blood-thirsty, thank goodness. But he was stealthy, I’ll tell you. The rule was (and how I ever came up with this ‘rule’ is beyond me) that I had exactly half an hour to fall asleep. He couldn’t touch me in dream world, you see. Naturally. If I hadn’t fallen asleep, he would reach up slowly with his purple furry arm - yes, I was the only child on record to have ‘Grimace’ the McDonald’s character trapped under her bed - and drag me under into his world. Sure I protected myself by placing my stuffed animals in a strategic perimeter around me but still I only slept about 75 hours total for three years. And finally grew out of Grimace by process of elimination - I checked under my bed and in my closet ritualistically every single night. I’ve only just stopped now because the mess under there scares me more than the monsters.
What about as an adult? We should all have grown out of the mind tricks, right? But sometimes it’s just not our fault. Like when you fall asleep with your bedside lamp on and when you wake up it’s off. Off! You’re alone in the house, you know for SURE you didn’t wake up once. How did it turn itself off? Is it a ghost? Well, if it is a ghost at least it’s energy conscious. And then there are the late night, creaking footsteps, the tapping at your window that sounds nothing like a tree regardless of what everyone tells you or a sudden inexplicable drop in temperature (did you see the Sixth Sense?). I swear, the only reason I got a dog was to cover up all of these late night fears. “It was the dog” - is a resounding refrain in our house.
The thing about my dog is, she plays mental tricks on me herself. I don’t thinks she means to but…Sometimes? When I’m getting changed in my room and she’s lying on the bed watching me with her big unblinking brown eyes - there‘s something that‘s just not right. Especially when I’ve been alone in the house for some time and I’ve started to talk to her just to hear the sound of my own voice - “What are we doing today, Lily?” “Should we go for a walk or do you just want to hang out here?” - she starts to seem; human. Not in a good way. Like one of those Shaggy D.A. dog/human combos. Somewhere inside her doggy body may lurk Tim Allen in a three piece suit. And they’re both judging me I climb out of my pyjamas at 2 o’clock in the afternoon on a sunny Saturday. She watches me so intently that I can’t help saying “What?” self-consciously before covering up. And sending her out to the backyard. Where I can only assume she transforms back into just being a dog.
The only plus side to all of this? When one of the boys comes down in the night and is SURE there is a vampire watching him from a tree across the street - I believe him.
We all dealt with the monster-under-my-bed mindset when we were small children, I’m sure. I know for a fact that there was something…sinister going on under my bed other than broken toys and forgotten socks. When my girlfriends and I had sleepovers together, our ‘monsters’ were our main source of entertainment (that and the tracks 6 through 9 of the ‘Grease’ soundtrack). We would gratefully confess to our deepest, darkest secrets and eat dill pickle chips in the dark. Some of these stories stay with me still. One friend in particular - we’ll call her Shannon because that was her name - told me she was sure that there was a man with a machete living in her basement. He would wait until the whole family was asleep and trace his machete around the edges of their beds, lopping off any limbs that may hang over the edge of the mattress. To this day I still sleep in a neatly tucked ball, making sure not to drape over the sides in any way - after all, one can never be too sure, right?
My ‘monster’ was not quite as blood-thirsty, thank goodness. But he was stealthy, I’ll tell you. The rule was (and how I ever came up with this ‘rule’ is beyond me) that I had exactly half an hour to fall asleep. He couldn’t touch me in dream world, you see. Naturally. If I hadn’t fallen asleep, he would reach up slowly with his purple furry arm - yes, I was the only child on record to have ‘Grimace’ the McDonald’s character trapped under her bed - and drag me under into his world. Sure I protected myself by placing my stuffed animals in a strategic perimeter around me but still I only slept about 75 hours total for three years. And finally grew out of Grimace by process of elimination - I checked under my bed and in my closet ritualistically every single night. I’ve only just stopped now because the mess under there scares me more than the monsters.
What about as an adult? We should all have grown out of the mind tricks, right? But sometimes it’s just not our fault. Like when you fall asleep with your bedside lamp on and when you wake up it’s off. Off! You’re alone in the house, you know for SURE you didn’t wake up once. How did it turn itself off? Is it a ghost? Well, if it is a ghost at least it’s energy conscious. And then there are the late night, creaking footsteps, the tapping at your window that sounds nothing like a tree regardless of what everyone tells you or a sudden inexplicable drop in temperature (did you see the Sixth Sense?). I swear, the only reason I got a dog was to cover up all of these late night fears. “It was the dog” - is a resounding refrain in our house.
The thing about my dog is, she plays mental tricks on me herself. I don’t thinks she means to but…Sometimes? When I’m getting changed in my room and she’s lying on the bed watching me with her big unblinking brown eyes - there‘s something that‘s just not right. Especially when I’ve been alone in the house for some time and I’ve started to talk to her just to hear the sound of my own voice - “What are we doing today, Lily?” “Should we go for a walk or do you just want to hang out here?” - she starts to seem; human. Not in a good way. Like one of those Shaggy D.A. dog/human combos. Somewhere inside her doggy body may lurk Tim Allen in a three piece suit. And they’re both judging me I climb out of my pyjamas at 2 o’clock in the afternoon on a sunny Saturday. She watches me so intently that I can’t help saying “What?” self-consciously before covering up. And sending her out to the backyard. Where I can only assume she transforms back into just being a dog.
The only plus side to all of this? When one of the boys comes down in the night and is SURE there is a vampire watching him from a tree across the street - I believe him.
My Birthday
This coming Saturday I will turn thirty-five. Which anyone whose anyone knows means you are no longer in your early thirties. Now I realize in the grand scheme of things, thirty-five is young-ish. Not a huge deal. Or as one of my very best friends would say ‘that ain’t nothing but a chicken wing’. So it shouldn’t be bothering me - especially since I’ve looked thirty-five since I was about eighteen. But it is. It really, really is.
Thirty-five feels as though I should ’be’ somewhere. Maybe solid or something. Dependable. With back-ups of linens and good cutlery. And a library - yes, someone who is thirty-five should definitely have a library in their home as opposed to piles of paperbacks under their bed. Possibly even a fireplace too. I think if I were being graded on life - and I really wish there was a grading system to follow to give one an idea about successes, failures, choices and such - I would be pulling about a C-. Or a C plus. Depending on how much emphasis is put on a self-deprecating sense of humour. And I would definitely get points for my sunny sensibility.
But do you know what I want for my birthday (other than a Vespa, of course)? I want to drop my ‘game face’ for one day. Let go of the sunny sensibility. For just one darn day. I want to take every dark, depressing crappy thought that I keep hidden in the tiniest pocket of my mind out for a good polish. Just ruminate in self-pity. Feel completely and luxuriously just plain sorry for myself. So happy birthday to me then - and to all of you, sort of. You now get to share in my great big old rainy day of melancholy.
Let’s get started, shall we? First of all, I really hate these stupid ‘milestone’ birthdays. They just never work out for me in any way, shape or form. I always end up feeling like the only girl in my group not invited to prom. Wait - except for my nineteenth birthday. That one (from what I’ve heard) was legendary. Sort of a pity I can only remember about seventeen minutes of it. All of the other ones, though…not so much.
For instance there was my sweet sixteen. I had spent months - years even - memorizing ‘Sixteen Going On Seventeen’ from the Sound of Music. ‘Sixteen Candles’ was my favourite movie. I had circled a few used cars in my dad’s Auto Trader just in case. Not that I expected a car or anything but it’s always nice to be well-informed, right? Do you want to know what we did? We went camping. Just me, my brothers and my parents (who incidentally got to sleep in the camper while I slept in a tent beside my explosively gassy brothers). My birthday dinner was some KFC and a candle melting in a fly ridden banana cream pie. With a can of warm diet coke. No dancing in the gazebo with Rolph before he became a Nazi. No pretty pink dress. Just mosquito bites and a wet tent. Sweet.
Then there was my twenty-first. All I can say about that one is this - my friends all had a drunken, raucous good time. I sipped iced tea in the corner, rubbing my pregnant belly. Not fun.
Which brings us to my thirtieth. Which was the weekend after I left my husband. It almost completely passed me by as I packed and cried and bought myself a present that I pretended was from him. My mother took me out for crab cakes and chardonnay the next day, a tense afternoon while we both tried to avoid discussing the huge elephant in the room. Of course I didn’t hear from a single friend because, at that point, I didn’t have a single friends. Saying ‘divorce’ was sort of like yelling ‘stampede!’. I didn’t feel thirty - I felt sixty.
Okay, that’s it. Enough. I’ve changed my mind. I don’t really feel like feeling sorry for myself any more. After all, there’s pretty much no way this birthday can be worse than any of those, right? So what if I have to bake my own cake, make my own dinner, buy my own presents (don’t ask)? This is the first year the boys will all be home, thank goodness. I’m sure I can bully them into being thoughtful. Plus, I can spend the day counting my blessings. Hilarious, cool kids, a few choice loyal friends, a snug little house that I love, shiny hair and all of my teeth. And a job that pays me to complain about my life every week! Life is pretty darn good, I’d say. Or at least, good enough.
Thirty-five feels as though I should ’be’ somewhere. Maybe solid or something. Dependable. With back-ups of linens and good cutlery. And a library - yes, someone who is thirty-five should definitely have a library in their home as opposed to piles of paperbacks under their bed. Possibly even a fireplace too. I think if I were being graded on life - and I really wish there was a grading system to follow to give one an idea about successes, failures, choices and such - I would be pulling about a C-. Or a C plus. Depending on how much emphasis is put on a self-deprecating sense of humour. And I would definitely get points for my sunny sensibility.
But do you know what I want for my birthday (other than a Vespa, of course)? I want to drop my ‘game face’ for one day. Let go of the sunny sensibility. For just one darn day. I want to take every dark, depressing crappy thought that I keep hidden in the tiniest pocket of my mind out for a good polish. Just ruminate in self-pity. Feel completely and luxuriously just plain sorry for myself. So happy birthday to me then - and to all of you, sort of. You now get to share in my great big old rainy day of melancholy.
Let’s get started, shall we? First of all, I really hate these stupid ‘milestone’ birthdays. They just never work out for me in any way, shape or form. I always end up feeling like the only girl in my group not invited to prom. Wait - except for my nineteenth birthday. That one (from what I’ve heard) was legendary. Sort of a pity I can only remember about seventeen minutes of it. All of the other ones, though…not so much.
For instance there was my sweet sixteen. I had spent months - years even - memorizing ‘Sixteen Going On Seventeen’ from the Sound of Music. ‘Sixteen Candles’ was my favourite movie. I had circled a few used cars in my dad’s Auto Trader just in case. Not that I expected a car or anything but it’s always nice to be well-informed, right? Do you want to know what we did? We went camping. Just me, my brothers and my parents (who incidentally got to sleep in the camper while I slept in a tent beside my explosively gassy brothers). My birthday dinner was some KFC and a candle melting in a fly ridden banana cream pie. With a can of warm diet coke. No dancing in the gazebo with Rolph before he became a Nazi. No pretty pink dress. Just mosquito bites and a wet tent. Sweet.
Then there was my twenty-first. All I can say about that one is this - my friends all had a drunken, raucous good time. I sipped iced tea in the corner, rubbing my pregnant belly. Not fun.
Which brings us to my thirtieth. Which was the weekend after I left my husband. It almost completely passed me by as I packed and cried and bought myself a present that I pretended was from him. My mother took me out for crab cakes and chardonnay the next day, a tense afternoon while we both tried to avoid discussing the huge elephant in the room. Of course I didn’t hear from a single friend because, at that point, I didn’t have a single friends. Saying ‘divorce’ was sort of like yelling ‘stampede!’. I didn’t feel thirty - I felt sixty.
Okay, that’s it. Enough. I’ve changed my mind. I don’t really feel like feeling sorry for myself any more. After all, there’s pretty much no way this birthday can be worse than any of those, right? So what if I have to bake my own cake, make my own dinner, buy my own presents (don’t ask)? This is the first year the boys will all be home, thank goodness. I’m sure I can bully them into being thoughtful. Plus, I can spend the day counting my blessings. Hilarious, cool kids, a few choice loyal friends, a snug little house that I love, shiny hair and all of my teeth. And a job that pays me to complain about my life every week! Life is pretty darn good, I’d say. Or at least, good enough.
Weighty Issues
The other day I was on the phone with a girlfriend who is considering giving up on men. Apparently she’s had it - had it with the primping, had it with the settling for whatever comes her way, had it with the mind games and the disappointed expectations. “That’s it”, she declared. “I’m going to spend the winter letting myself get all fat and stop caring about how I look.”
Now I don’t think she meant anything by that. I really don’t. The sheer audacity of it, though! This is someone who has spent her entire life as a thin pretty woman. Someone who has never struggled with obesity, the freshman fifteen or even the premenstrual five. So to her, I suppose, it would seem as though just letting yourself get fat is the easiest thing in the world to do. As though it’s a choice a good 55% of us women have made.
I am someone the population at large would consider overweight. And no, I don’t mean that I’m a size 8 who wants to lose 10 pounds. I’m not one of those women who has always been overweight - which I think can be a little tougher in it’s own way. No, unfortunately for me, I was ‘considered a handsome woman in my day‘. I was never a thin girl, but I was thinner. And yes, the four kids haven’t helped my weight, the divorce, the stress of being a single mom, blah, blah, blah. But I’m guessing all of that wonderful chocolate and second - or third - cupcake after the kids have gone to bed probably didn’t help either. And the almost crippling inability to stick to one exercise program at a time - will it be yoga this week? Or belly dancing? Or how about just early morning walks? Or maybe I should just lay on the couch and watch Dawson’s Creek.
You might think I feel rotten about this ‘failure’, this letting down of my self. Not really. It’s like anything else, I suppose, something I need to figure out on my own. If only I could get strep throat again! That had to be the best diet I was ever on! I still like to look nice - sometimes. But even when I was thinner I only ever cared about looking nice some of the time. I tend to be more of a non-conformist about aesthetics - that is until I want to look really pretty and shiny for a party. Then it’s bring on the bronzer! A few months back, I was heading out to this really swanky party with some friends - all of us plus size gals. We were getting ready at my house, blaring some reggae and drinking wine, doing each other’s hair. I felt fabulous. I was wearing a great dress, had bought a perfect hand painted silk scarf to tie around my throat, was wearing these great strappy sandals. Everything around me seemed to buzz with possibility. Inside my little safe place, I was happy. Once outside though…there was a sort of slipping down when we arrived that had nothing to do with the way I looked and everything to do with the looks I felt I was getting (they weren‘t exactly cat-calling for me), a feeling for a moment like maybe we weren’t all that and a bag of chips. Like maybe I looked a little ridiculous. But, wine helped. Five bottles of wine helped more. I danced the night away, laughed, ate and had a wonderful time.
What did this tell me? That maybe it isn’t the extra weight that embarrasses me. Like maybe it’s other people’s embarrassment for me that does me in. Sends me back to the track suits. Do I want to lose weight? Of course I do - sometimes. But the reasons that I want to lose weight are a little goofy - things like “I want to be able to cross my legs and look dainty” or “I want to be able to wear knee high boots and not look like I’ve been sausaged into them”. And I do miss the male attention aspect - but not as much as I miss my size 10 pencil skirts. Which is sort of funny because I think the weight gain had everything to do with men - it is a very comfortable cocoon for me, a nice warm shelter which always manages to be stocked with the best treats. Besides, there’s something welcoming about carrying a little - or a lot - of extra weight. Nurturing. It seems to naturally suit one side of my lifestyle - the homebody, the baker of pies and cooker of dinners, the Mom in me. And the other side of me - the one that gets a little good behaviour time on Saturdays to cut loose and have a few drinks - isn’t ready for a full revolt just yet. But I have a sneaking suspicion it’s coming - I bet she’s waiting in the wings with some new Nike cross trainers and top of the line workout gear ready to pounce. Oh well - perhaps it’s finally time. Or not.
Now I don’t think she meant anything by that. I really don’t. The sheer audacity of it, though! This is someone who has spent her entire life as a thin pretty woman. Someone who has never struggled with obesity, the freshman fifteen or even the premenstrual five. So to her, I suppose, it would seem as though just letting yourself get fat is the easiest thing in the world to do. As though it’s a choice a good 55% of us women have made.
I am someone the population at large would consider overweight. And no, I don’t mean that I’m a size 8 who wants to lose 10 pounds. I’m not one of those women who has always been overweight - which I think can be a little tougher in it’s own way. No, unfortunately for me, I was ‘considered a handsome woman in my day‘. I was never a thin girl, but I was thinner. And yes, the four kids haven’t helped my weight, the divorce, the stress of being a single mom, blah, blah, blah. But I’m guessing all of that wonderful chocolate and second - or third - cupcake after the kids have gone to bed probably didn’t help either. And the almost crippling inability to stick to one exercise program at a time - will it be yoga this week? Or belly dancing? Or how about just early morning walks? Or maybe I should just lay on the couch and watch Dawson’s Creek.
You might think I feel rotten about this ‘failure’, this letting down of my self. Not really. It’s like anything else, I suppose, something I need to figure out on my own. If only I could get strep throat again! That had to be the best diet I was ever on! I still like to look nice - sometimes. But even when I was thinner I only ever cared about looking nice some of the time. I tend to be more of a non-conformist about aesthetics - that is until I want to look really pretty and shiny for a party. Then it’s bring on the bronzer! A few months back, I was heading out to this really swanky party with some friends - all of us plus size gals. We were getting ready at my house, blaring some reggae and drinking wine, doing each other’s hair. I felt fabulous. I was wearing a great dress, had bought a perfect hand painted silk scarf to tie around my throat, was wearing these great strappy sandals. Everything around me seemed to buzz with possibility. Inside my little safe place, I was happy. Once outside though…there was a sort of slipping down when we arrived that had nothing to do with the way I looked and everything to do with the looks I felt I was getting (they weren‘t exactly cat-calling for me), a feeling for a moment like maybe we weren’t all that and a bag of chips. Like maybe I looked a little ridiculous. But, wine helped. Five bottles of wine helped more. I danced the night away, laughed, ate and had a wonderful time.
What did this tell me? That maybe it isn’t the extra weight that embarrasses me. Like maybe it’s other people’s embarrassment for me that does me in. Sends me back to the track suits. Do I want to lose weight? Of course I do - sometimes. But the reasons that I want to lose weight are a little goofy - things like “I want to be able to cross my legs and look dainty” or “I want to be able to wear knee high boots and not look like I’ve been sausaged into them”. And I do miss the male attention aspect - but not as much as I miss my size 10 pencil skirts. Which is sort of funny because I think the weight gain had everything to do with men - it is a very comfortable cocoon for me, a nice warm shelter which always manages to be stocked with the best treats. Besides, there’s something welcoming about carrying a little - or a lot - of extra weight. Nurturing. It seems to naturally suit one side of my lifestyle - the homebody, the baker of pies and cooker of dinners, the Mom in me. And the other side of me - the one that gets a little good behaviour time on Saturdays to cut loose and have a few drinks - isn’t ready for a full revolt just yet. But I have a sneaking suspicion it’s coming - I bet she’s waiting in the wings with some new Nike cross trainers and top of the line workout gear ready to pounce. Oh well - perhaps it’s finally time. Or not.
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