About two years ago my Mom bought me this really fantastic bra. We had been out shopping - she is the last victim standing who will still shop for bras with me, I think she may suffer from Stockholm Syndrome - and we found this black silk bra. Full support (a girl always needs all the support she can get), wide straps and, best of all, a hot pink embroidered butterfly right smack dab in the middle. Oh it was a glorious thing to behold - I took it in to the change room, tried it on for all of thirty seconds to make sure the girls would stay put and maybe even danced around for a little in it. Or maybe not, I’ll never say.
I got it home - and that butterfly really let me down in the thick of things, I must tell you. It kept waffling under the pressure, caving in on itself, letting the girls - well, letting the girls down, really. I’ve worn this bra once or twice, sacrificing any sort of comfort or modesty as I realign and re-adjust the gals every 20 minutes or so just to feel that butterfly flutter near my heart. Mostly now though it lays in the bottom drawer, or my ‘pretty bra graveyard’ as I’ve started calling it. It’s folded neatly, kept company by the pink lace demi bra, the lavender ‘extreme’ push-up bra that had me looking like the masthead of a ship, the black t-shirt bra with extra padding - tell me, why exactly do they pad bras that size? I’m fairly certain I have enough natural padding of my own.
Bra shopping, right? There is NOTHING worse, not root canals, not blind dates, not severe nail breakage. I’ve been tempted over the years to get properly fitted for a bra - after all, Oprah has done at least two specials on proper bra fit (did you know 85% of us are wearing the wrong size?) and she is Oprah. She knows things. But I’m a little afraid - Oprah was a size G, which means that the alphabet could quite possibly run out before they find my size. And I’ve looked through the stores - even on the bottom shelves in the bigger department stores (which is where they always keep the bigger sizes; it’s not humiliating enough to rifle through all of the boxed bras, they need to make you crawl in the dark for them as well), the biggest size they have is, like a D. Which just won’t do. Although, even if you find your size, chances are you won’t be that size in the next store or even necessarily if you try again tomorrow after you’ve downed an iced cappucino on the way to the mall.
Another thing - if you do ever manage to figure out what size bra you wear, if you get taped and measured and wrestled in to the right bra with the right straps which conceal the right amount of back fat, why do they only come in two colours? And why are the colours either white or the colour of nothingness? Forget about matching underwear - just go get yourself a pair of granny panties, I suppose. Then you’ve got your poor fella sitting next to you at the movies, watching some hot young starlet in her black lace panty set and he’s probably thinking “Oh yeah, I get to go home with Ms. Granny Panties/Burlap Bra”.
Of course, let’s not forget the terminology - I swear you need a degree in bra-translation to figure out what you need. A minimizer, a maximizer (because if the girls are small, they need to look bigger and if the girls are big, you’ve gotta make them look smaller), balconette, demi-cup, underwire, sport, full-coverage, push-up, extreme push-up, plunge, wire-free, padded. And one of these is the type of bra that will flatter you the most, will have you standing a little taller and feeling a litter curvier, thinner, whatever you like. But no one is telling you which one - you must guess.
It doesn’t really help that we are all so - aware - of our breasts either. Whether they are too small, too large, a strange shape, lopsided, two different sizes, so much of our feminine strength and power is wrapped up in them. So maybe that’s why we willingly shell out hundreds (that’s right husbands, we all lied. That bra didn’t cost 9.99. It was 84.99 on sale) to see them treated right. That’s also why we wash them like we wash our newborn babies, by hand and with love - the wedding dress would go in the dryer before the ‘smalls’.
There is always hope, though. The secret is - not to keep it a secret. If you find a great bra tell everyone. Tell them where you bought it. Tell them why you love it. Maybe even tell them your size - it would be very cleansing, trust me. The perfect bra is the Holy Grail. So let’s all soldier on, girls. For the girls.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Column April 10th
What Would YOU Ask….?
I’m an inquisitive sort of gal most days. Always was. Now as a girl the big problem was never getting any proper answers. These days though, as my stack of women’s magazines and self-help books can attest to, the problem is too many answers. All day, every day, I’m getting answers to questions I had this morning, had last week, questions I haven’t actually asked yet but someone has anticipated my question so…
Answers are fine, really just fine. Lately though, I’ve had at least five answers to every question I’ve asked. Which of course has me asking more questions. So what I’m looking for, what I crave, what I’d really, really appreciate is a DEFINITIVE answer. Some fantastic omnipotent being that knows, and everyone knows it knows so that’s the end of it, already! Someone who can say beyond a shadow of a doubt - “No, take my word for it, red is just not your colour no matter what the shade.”
So what would I ask this useful gal or fella? Oh, millions of things. Sure, I would ask the ‘Big’ questions about our existence and stuff, but first I would want answers to the really important questions:
Should I be counting calories or fat grams? What the heck is trans fat? Can I eat as many chips as I want, as long as they don’t have trans fat? Did I look better when my hair was longer (even the boys are split on this one, and yes, I’ve asked them)? How many swear words do you have to put in a movie to change it from PG13 to 14A? Am I being too permissive if I let Callum go to a 14A even though he is 13? Is switching to 1% milk enough to help you lose weight? How often should you wash your hair?
Is it better to marry for love or companionship? Are they eventually the same thing, does it happen one cold morning when he helps you into your winter coat without your having to ask? What age should you REALLY start having kids - this ship has sailed for me, of course, but I would ask this for all of the up-and-comers. Because it seems to me there are a few regrets attached to whichever age you choose, so someone needs to tell us.
Do you really need an oil change every 3000 km? Seriously? What will happen if I use Oil of Olay products with Almay products - will my skin peel off? If I don’t have time for my stretches after my work out, will I still build muscle or will they just atrophy? Should I have left my husband? Am I really happier now, or do I just tell myself I’m happier?
Equally as important - if I switch to light peanut butter, will I get slimmer but then die from the toxins in the mystery ingredients? How much television is too much? How do you know for sure? Will I make the kids stupid if they watch too much? Is that why some days I’m a little stupid? How long should I spend on the phone - and is it going to damage the kids when I tell them to leave me be for one darn minute so I can talk to my friends? Is Disney World really worth it? How much should I spend on Christmas? Do I have fine lines around my eyes, because sometimes it looks like it but other times it doesn’t?
Am I wasting my life? How do you know when you’re not wasting your life? How do you know when you are? How does everyone else find proper fitting jeans? What length of skirt is the most flattering? Am I a ‘summer’ or an ‘autumn’? Should I carry a big purse or a small one? I think I have a good relationship with my sons - do they think they have a good relationship with me? Why do people like crocs? Are they going to look back 10 years from now and think “What the heck was I thinking?”, sort of like leggings - although I’ve noticed a disturbing return to this trend. And all I can say to that one is “NO!”.
If I only eat 5 serving of fruit and vegetables a day, and they’re mostly fruit, is that what is recommended? Because they tell you 5-10 servings, so I’m within the parameters. Does fruit cocktail with the little cherries in it count? Oh well, I guess it’s all sort of like the way I diet - I just pick through all of the information until it resembles something that makes a little sense to me (right now, I’m loving that whole wine, cheese and chocolate idea). I guess that’s what we all do - although it would be nice to know your REAL bra size, wouldn’t it?
I’m an inquisitive sort of gal most days. Always was. Now as a girl the big problem was never getting any proper answers. These days though, as my stack of women’s magazines and self-help books can attest to, the problem is too many answers. All day, every day, I’m getting answers to questions I had this morning, had last week, questions I haven’t actually asked yet but someone has anticipated my question so…
Answers are fine, really just fine. Lately though, I’ve had at least five answers to every question I’ve asked. Which of course has me asking more questions. So what I’m looking for, what I crave, what I’d really, really appreciate is a DEFINITIVE answer. Some fantastic omnipotent being that knows, and everyone knows it knows so that’s the end of it, already! Someone who can say beyond a shadow of a doubt - “No, take my word for it, red is just not your colour no matter what the shade.”
So what would I ask this useful gal or fella? Oh, millions of things. Sure, I would ask the ‘Big’ questions about our existence and stuff, but first I would want answers to the really important questions:
Should I be counting calories or fat grams? What the heck is trans fat? Can I eat as many chips as I want, as long as they don’t have trans fat? Did I look better when my hair was longer (even the boys are split on this one, and yes, I’ve asked them)? How many swear words do you have to put in a movie to change it from PG13 to 14A? Am I being too permissive if I let Callum go to a 14A even though he is 13? Is switching to 1% milk enough to help you lose weight? How often should you wash your hair?
Is it better to marry for love or companionship? Are they eventually the same thing, does it happen one cold morning when he helps you into your winter coat without your having to ask? What age should you REALLY start having kids - this ship has sailed for me, of course, but I would ask this for all of the up-and-comers. Because it seems to me there are a few regrets attached to whichever age you choose, so someone needs to tell us.
Do you really need an oil change every 3000 km? Seriously? What will happen if I use Oil of Olay products with Almay products - will my skin peel off? If I don’t have time for my stretches after my work out, will I still build muscle or will they just atrophy? Should I have left my husband? Am I really happier now, or do I just tell myself I’m happier?
Equally as important - if I switch to light peanut butter, will I get slimmer but then die from the toxins in the mystery ingredients? How much television is too much? How do you know for sure? Will I make the kids stupid if they watch too much? Is that why some days I’m a little stupid? How long should I spend on the phone - and is it going to damage the kids when I tell them to leave me be for one darn minute so I can talk to my friends? Is Disney World really worth it? How much should I spend on Christmas? Do I have fine lines around my eyes, because sometimes it looks like it but other times it doesn’t?
Am I wasting my life? How do you know when you’re not wasting your life? How do you know when you are? How does everyone else find proper fitting jeans? What length of skirt is the most flattering? Am I a ‘summer’ or an ‘autumn’? Should I carry a big purse or a small one? I think I have a good relationship with my sons - do they think they have a good relationship with me? Why do people like crocs? Are they going to look back 10 years from now and think “What the heck was I thinking?”, sort of like leggings - although I’ve noticed a disturbing return to this trend. And all I can say to that one is “NO!”.
If I only eat 5 serving of fruit and vegetables a day, and they’re mostly fruit, is that what is recommended? Because they tell you 5-10 servings, so I’m within the parameters. Does fruit cocktail with the little cherries in it count? Oh well, I guess it’s all sort of like the way I diet - I just pick through all of the information until it resembles something that makes a little sense to me (right now, I’m loving that whole wine, cheese and chocolate idea). I guess that’s what we all do - although it would be nice to know your REAL bra size, wouldn’t it?
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Reduce or Reuse?
So I’d been considering having my breasts done. Not augmented, but done. Kaput. Finito. Considerably smaller and noticeably perkier. I’d been thinking about it for a long time. Twenty years to be precise. Ever since I was thirteen and bloomed into a full grown 1950’s movie starlet overnight. Ever since I was a bridesmaid at my mother’s wedding and had to be virtually taped into my rose silk gown. Ever since I received that same year, as a gag gift in my Christmas stocking, a book entitled ‘Big Boobs is….’ ( one example; big boobs is…never needing a table for your tea cup. Ha-ha-ha). And was forced to read aloud from it’s pages for my slightly over-the-top parents. And grandparents. And cousins.
The funny thing about developing is that the right girls never get the breasts. I remember a whole gaggle of my girlfriends oohing and aahing over my new appendages, quietly despairing that they would never achieve the same cup size as myself. Considering I was already a 36C (and climbing higher) they were probably quite right to despair. I, on the other hand, loudly despaired that I would never be able to play team sports, run down the street, go braless (it took a long time for my horrified mother to convince me of that one) or wear a bikini like they could. If only I had known then that these would be the least of my problems.
The high school years were tough. I started to walk a little hunched over and wore baggy sweats (the age old trick all voluptuous girls know and love) but I wasn’t fooling anyone. Crude - and rather unimaginative - nicknames surfaced, and I was either being ridiculed for my curves or sought after. I’m not quite sure which was more humiliating. I once had a man tell me scornfully that he didn’t like ‘girls with big boobs’. As though that was all I was allowed. The only person I could possibly be. Naturally I came back with a clever rejoinder (“Well that’s a shame because I grew them just for you.”) but it was demeaning. And dehumanizing.
And then there were the other men. The ones who watched my breasts as though they may start doing tricks or pull themselves free of my body somehow. A certain level of intentional sexuality is apparently attached to being well-endowed, and not just by men. Women feel the need on a daily basis to inform me of my large breasts as though it were something I hadn’t noticed, like mustard on my upper lip. These are often the same women who inch closer to their husbands in my presence in fear I may use my powers for evil instead of good.
Well finally this year, weary and frustrated, off I headed to the plastic surgeon. As I sat waiting for him in his office, topless and exposed on the cool sterilized plastic, I wondered what exactly I was expecting. After all, once I had perfect breasts wouldn’t it follow that I would need the perfect body to go with them? I pictured these lovely breasts atop my soft, pillowy body. How would that work? The surgeon came in and began to manoeuvre my breasts to and fro without so much as a ‘how do you do?’. He nodded to himself a few times, saying ‘yes’ and ‘I see’ to my nipples. Then he proceeded to tell me that, in essence, I was malformed enough to have my breast reduction covered by my health plan. We talked for awhile about the surgery, about the scars that would sear across my flesh for eternity and about the month long recovery. He never once asked me if I was sure that I wanted this done. We didn’t bother getting into the psychology of it all. I thanked him politely, left the office with my mountain of paper work and never returned.
It’s strange, but the finality of it all made me see clearly. They were wrong. All of them. I wasn’t malformed, I was me. I’m not defined by my breasts, nor am I encumbered by them. The plain, solid truth was that I was giving up. Worn down by the prejudice and unwanted attention. Sure, they may be larger than what is normal, but since when had I cared about normal? I had nursed my babies with these breasts and for all their saggy, stretch-marked imperfection they were mine. Perfectly. And I’m not changing them for anybody. So there.
The funny thing about developing is that the right girls never get the breasts. I remember a whole gaggle of my girlfriends oohing and aahing over my new appendages, quietly despairing that they would never achieve the same cup size as myself. Considering I was already a 36C (and climbing higher) they were probably quite right to despair. I, on the other hand, loudly despaired that I would never be able to play team sports, run down the street, go braless (it took a long time for my horrified mother to convince me of that one) or wear a bikini like they could. If only I had known then that these would be the least of my problems.
The high school years were tough. I started to walk a little hunched over and wore baggy sweats (the age old trick all voluptuous girls know and love) but I wasn’t fooling anyone. Crude - and rather unimaginative - nicknames surfaced, and I was either being ridiculed for my curves or sought after. I’m not quite sure which was more humiliating. I once had a man tell me scornfully that he didn’t like ‘girls with big boobs’. As though that was all I was allowed. The only person I could possibly be. Naturally I came back with a clever rejoinder (“Well that’s a shame because I grew them just for you.”) but it was demeaning. And dehumanizing.
And then there were the other men. The ones who watched my breasts as though they may start doing tricks or pull themselves free of my body somehow. A certain level of intentional sexuality is apparently attached to being well-endowed, and not just by men. Women feel the need on a daily basis to inform me of my large breasts as though it were something I hadn’t noticed, like mustard on my upper lip. These are often the same women who inch closer to their husbands in my presence in fear I may use my powers for evil instead of good.
Well finally this year, weary and frustrated, off I headed to the plastic surgeon. As I sat waiting for him in his office, topless and exposed on the cool sterilized plastic, I wondered what exactly I was expecting. After all, once I had perfect breasts wouldn’t it follow that I would need the perfect body to go with them? I pictured these lovely breasts atop my soft, pillowy body. How would that work? The surgeon came in and began to manoeuvre my breasts to and fro without so much as a ‘how do you do?’. He nodded to himself a few times, saying ‘yes’ and ‘I see’ to my nipples. Then he proceeded to tell me that, in essence, I was malformed enough to have my breast reduction covered by my health plan. We talked for awhile about the surgery, about the scars that would sear across my flesh for eternity and about the month long recovery. He never once asked me if I was sure that I wanted this done. We didn’t bother getting into the psychology of it all. I thanked him politely, left the office with my mountain of paper work and never returned.
It’s strange, but the finality of it all made me see clearly. They were wrong. All of them. I wasn’t malformed, I was me. I’m not defined by my breasts, nor am I encumbered by them. The plain, solid truth was that I was giving up. Worn down by the prejudice and unwanted attention. Sure, they may be larger than what is normal, but since when had I cared about normal? I had nursed my babies with these breasts and for all their saggy, stretch-marked imperfection they were mine. Perfectly. And I’m not changing them for anybody. So there.
Just Be
It’s a Friday night, mid-September. The leaves are mostly changed, with a few stubborn trees hanging on to their brilliant green. It’s been raining grey and cool all day. And I’m at the grocery store, alone and in sweats, buying the fixings for home-made nachos, some bubble-bath, wine and cat food. You’re probably picturing a sort-of Diane Lane scene from Must Have Dog or Under The Tuscan Sun. Where she looks perfectly dishevelled and her big liquid brown eyes and perfect body quietly ask, why me? I’m lovely and brilliantly acerbic, intelligent. And notice how great my ass looks in these tight sweats.
So, yeah, that’s so not me. I’m the one you see in the grocery store while you shop with your husband and kids. You might notice me more as an anthropological example than anything, but it’s more likely you don’t notice me. My ponytail is not artfully messy, just messy. My sweats don’t have j-lo written on the tag and they certainly don’t fit me like a glove. Good Lord what a thought! My clothes are shapeless and colourless. Every so often I get that little sad smile that’s not a smile from a fellow shopper. The one when your lips turn neither up nor down but thin into a non-commital line that says ‘How sad! (cluck!)’. You know what’s so great about this, though? It’s not bothering me. Not the twenty-something checkout girl who tells me briskly to return my basket to the front when I have finished packing my groceries. I assume she had her own reasons for being a bit of a bitch. Not the young guys in line behind me who whisper to each other and let out squeaky barks of laughter. Not even the bitter rain on my slicker as I trudge out to the car.
The thing is this - I have discovered one fundamental truth that keeps me going. Going through awkward public outings (did I mention that earlier I was at the bookstore alone, buying a cheap copy of Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility and an expensive copy of Glamour? Glamour costs more. It makes you think, doesn’t it?) Going through more difficult, permanent things. Like my ex-husband, the one I still love even though he is the worst person in the world for me, bringing in his new baby for me to hold and cuddle. The baby he had with the girl he left me for. Sort of. The baby who looks like him - our sons, god love ‘em, are both the image of me - and giggles when I tickle his belly.
Sometimes your terror of a thing, your avoidance, is far worse than the thing itself. We’ve all heard this often enough but it doesn’t just relate to sharks and spiders and - in my case - birds. It’s moments like that. When David has walked in to my tidy little house to find the two boys and I cuddled on the couch, half asleep in front of ‘Teen Titans’. When he is carrying the baby I have avoided looking at or thinking about for over a year. And that baby instinctively stretches his chubby arms out for me and I have to take him. I have no choice. My stomach clenches in protest, my mind screams ‘no! you promised! There’s no going back now.’ And it’s done. This simple, stupid little moment is over. And I have not crumbled into dust. Hurrah!
So what is my fundamental truth? It’s alright to be just alright. Not fantastic, not stupendous, not joyous. Just alright. And it’s also okay to stay in a holding pattern of alright for as many years as you like. Once you let yourself go, let you dreams get smaller and more finite, your pleasure come from things like brie on a fresh baguette or wildflowers in a nice vase on your windowsill, it just comes. Stop striving. Stop trying. Stop changing. Just be.
So, yeah, that’s so not me. I’m the one you see in the grocery store while you shop with your husband and kids. You might notice me more as an anthropological example than anything, but it’s more likely you don’t notice me. My ponytail is not artfully messy, just messy. My sweats don’t have j-lo written on the tag and they certainly don’t fit me like a glove. Good Lord what a thought! My clothes are shapeless and colourless. Every so often I get that little sad smile that’s not a smile from a fellow shopper. The one when your lips turn neither up nor down but thin into a non-commital line that says ‘How sad! (cluck!)’. You know what’s so great about this, though? It’s not bothering me. Not the twenty-something checkout girl who tells me briskly to return my basket to the front when I have finished packing my groceries. I assume she had her own reasons for being a bit of a bitch. Not the young guys in line behind me who whisper to each other and let out squeaky barks of laughter. Not even the bitter rain on my slicker as I trudge out to the car.
The thing is this - I have discovered one fundamental truth that keeps me going. Going through awkward public outings (did I mention that earlier I was at the bookstore alone, buying a cheap copy of Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility and an expensive copy of Glamour? Glamour costs more. It makes you think, doesn’t it?) Going through more difficult, permanent things. Like my ex-husband, the one I still love even though he is the worst person in the world for me, bringing in his new baby for me to hold and cuddle. The baby he had with the girl he left me for. Sort of. The baby who looks like him - our sons, god love ‘em, are both the image of me - and giggles when I tickle his belly.
Sometimes your terror of a thing, your avoidance, is far worse than the thing itself. We’ve all heard this often enough but it doesn’t just relate to sharks and spiders and - in my case - birds. It’s moments like that. When David has walked in to my tidy little house to find the two boys and I cuddled on the couch, half asleep in front of ‘Teen Titans’. When he is carrying the baby I have avoided looking at or thinking about for over a year. And that baby instinctively stretches his chubby arms out for me and I have to take him. I have no choice. My stomach clenches in protest, my mind screams ‘no! you promised! There’s no going back now.’ And it’s done. This simple, stupid little moment is over. And I have not crumbled into dust. Hurrah!
So what is my fundamental truth? It’s alright to be just alright. Not fantastic, not stupendous, not joyous. Just alright. And it’s also okay to stay in a holding pattern of alright for as many years as you like. Once you let yourself go, let you dreams get smaller and more finite, your pleasure come from things like brie on a fresh baguette or wildflowers in a nice vase on your windowsill, it just comes. Stop striving. Stop trying. Stop changing. Just be.
Someday Our Prince Will Come...
It all started the first time I saw Cinderella. Sitting in the dark, vast theatre, downing my huge tub of popcorn so fast butter trickled down my chin, I suddenly knew. As her ridiculous stepsisters tried to squeeze their toes into her tiny little glass slipper, as I secretly hated them for being so unattractive (and would learn to hate myself a little bit later for the same reason), I got it. It is oh-so-much better to be tiny. If you’re tiny, you’re nice. Life may not be perfect for you now, but trust me. If the movies have anything to say about it, it will be. If you’re too tall, you could very well be a yeller. Or - gasp! - taller than a man. If you’re chubby - you may well be nice enough, but who can trust you with the food? But if you’re tiny…okay, maybe you’ll have to do all of the chores while the ugly girls get to lie around, but the birds will sing with you because you’re beautiful, and someone will supply you with a pretty blue headband. Then you’ll get an awesome dress made by clever handy rodents - and a new, even better one when that gets ruined. Plus you’ll get great footwear, a ride in a scooped out Pumpkin with great back lighting - and you’ll feel a little safe in the knowledge that some day your Prince WILL come. Because beauty = happy. And just a smidge more entitled. So it’s all good.
I remember taking careful stock of my ten year old little body at the time. My feet were long and slightly dirty from playing in the mud, as were my fingernails. My thighs and calves plump. I was even well on my way to the ‘breeders’ hips my Nana had warned me about. No doubt about it - I was going to be a big, sturdy girl. This just would not do. I so badly wanted to be delicate and treasured. I wanted to need to wear big sweaters because there wasn’t enough flesh on my body to keep me warm. I wanted what Cinderella had - except for the singing with the birds part. I am (somewhat famously) terrified of birds - although the deer and other livestock had seemed pretty fond of her too. That would be cool.
The thing of it was, inside I felt like a Cinderella type. I was forever singing away, always really nice - or at least 50% of the time. My mother could be a slave driver just like the infamous Lady Tremaine - is it sad that I remember her name? - she was forever asking me to clean my room and make my bed. But it wasn’t going to matter, not in the long run. When I was alone I felt lit up with the same happiness that had made Cinderella so lovely, but then I would be around people who told me “You would be so pretty if you would just…” or “Why not try the new yogurt diet? You could look nice by summer!”. I wasn’t delicate, I was sporty.
Then sporty turned into pleasantly plump, pleasantly plump into voluptuous. Voluptuous into “Whatever, I give up. Pass the cheesecake and elastic waist pants”. No one is frantically chasing me down with a glass slipper. Please, I can barely even get service when I’m clothes shopping (other than when someone nastily hisses “I don’t think we carry your size here.”). And I’m telling you, if Prince Charming even accidentally darkened my doorstep I would be just like the Stepsisters Tremaine, trying to squeeze my size 9 (fine - 10!) foot into her size whatever slipper. Could you blame me? He’s Prince Freaking Charming! And could you blame them? I mean, I know they should know better than to expect the love of a good man what with their bad hair and poor fashion choices. But maybe they just wanted to be treasured, by both men and tame wildlife. Maybe I still do too. I’m getting there - I think my dog really loves me.
I remember taking careful stock of my ten year old little body at the time. My feet were long and slightly dirty from playing in the mud, as were my fingernails. My thighs and calves plump. I was even well on my way to the ‘breeders’ hips my Nana had warned me about. No doubt about it - I was going to be a big, sturdy girl. This just would not do. I so badly wanted to be delicate and treasured. I wanted to need to wear big sweaters because there wasn’t enough flesh on my body to keep me warm. I wanted what Cinderella had - except for the singing with the birds part. I am (somewhat famously) terrified of birds - although the deer and other livestock had seemed pretty fond of her too. That would be cool.
The thing of it was, inside I felt like a Cinderella type. I was forever singing away, always really nice - or at least 50% of the time. My mother could be a slave driver just like the infamous Lady Tremaine - is it sad that I remember her name? - she was forever asking me to clean my room and make my bed. But it wasn’t going to matter, not in the long run. When I was alone I felt lit up with the same happiness that had made Cinderella so lovely, but then I would be around people who told me “You would be so pretty if you would just…” or “Why not try the new yogurt diet? You could look nice by summer!”. I wasn’t delicate, I was sporty.
Then sporty turned into pleasantly plump, pleasantly plump into voluptuous. Voluptuous into “Whatever, I give up. Pass the cheesecake and elastic waist pants”. No one is frantically chasing me down with a glass slipper. Please, I can barely even get service when I’m clothes shopping (other than when someone nastily hisses “I don’t think we carry your size here.”). And I’m telling you, if Prince Charming even accidentally darkened my doorstep I would be just like the Stepsisters Tremaine, trying to squeeze my size 9 (fine - 10!) foot into her size whatever slipper. Could you blame me? He’s Prince Freaking Charming! And could you blame them? I mean, I know they should know better than to expect the love of a good man what with their bad hair and poor fashion choices. But maybe they just wanted to be treasured, by both men and tame wildlife. Maybe I still do too. I’m getting there - I think my dog really loves me.
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