[I just have to take a breath here]
He turned to me and said, "Are you his grandma?"
Are you his grandma?
I let that bounce around in my psyche the entire day. Over and over, like a looped tape in my mind, I heard, "Are you his grandma?" I sulked. I pouted. I refused to talk to Larry, because he is 4 years younger than I am and no one mistakes him for a grandpa. And the next day, because I am obviously a glutton for punishment, I went to the mall and tried on clothes for 3 hours.
|She's smiling, because she has a waist.|
In other words, it was a severely demoralizing experience, made worse by the fact that -- due to my height deficit -- I must confine myself to the "petites" department. Do you know what it is like, walking past acres of beautiful clothing for women, knowing that NONE of it is for you, until you finally reach the tiny corner labeled "petites"? And then half the clothes there are grandma clothes?
Get thee behind me, Worthington and Alfred Dunner, with your full elastic waists and sensible scoop necks -- I will not go gently into that dark night.
I soldiered on, stalwart soul that I am, because I needed a dress or skirt to wear to Theo's graduation. Mid-calf length, as I CANNOT wear an above-the-knee style. What with the cellulite, age wrinkles, and varicose veins, it would be a punishing sight.
By the way, what the heck happened to pantyhose? They used to hide a multiple of ills for people like me. A pox on all you skinny young ones, with your vein-less legs and your stomachs that don't need control tops.
So, apparently, a mid-calf skirt or dress for a short, well-endowed woman is as attainable right now as a sensible budget deal in Congress. There were a few sleeveless dresses that might have reached below the knee, but they were too revealing on top (meaning, my marvel-of-engineering total-containment brassiere peeks out). I finally found something that isn't quite long enough, in a color I don't really like, that I bought out of desperation.
But I still wasn't done, not by a long shot. I was wearing jeans with holes in them, and all my pants at home were in a similar condition. So I had to find jeans that fit. I know! The holy grail, as it were, of fashion. Larry doesn't understand, because he can walk into a store, pick out jeans by waist and length (34, 32) and walk out, just as he has done for going on 3 decades now. He won't believe me when I tell him that women's clothing sizes are not reliable indicators of the actual size of the clothing. 25 years ago, I fit comfortably into a size 8. But today, when I am at least 15 pounds heavier? I have to try on numerous styles in size 6 and size 4. Go figure.
|I don't even EAT muffins.|
In other words, I am grandma-shaped. At 50. Look, I know that I am supposed to end this screed with some affirmations about self-acceptance and inner beauty and the like. And maybe by tomorrow, as the trauma of my shopping trip fades, I'll want to focus on my 3-mile-a-day walking regimen and my determination to tone my arms in 7 days by following some instructions I found on Pinterest.
But right now? I just want my waist back.
[3-way mirror: Fill My Cup]
[Muffin top: Aussie Fit]