This week's blog prompt--"Dressing up: chore or pleasure?"--sent my mind on a tangent. Of course. I immediately thought of:
Yeah, I'm a little warped.
So, I can't think of any song that focuses on a woman getting all gussied-up for a special occasion. Maybe I need to expand my musical repertoire.
Anyway, I used to like dressing up. You know, back when I had a waistline. Now, it's difficult to find anything that doesn't make me look like I'm wearing a tent trimmed in lace or sequins. Garish. Tacky. Certainly not pretty. These days I prize comfort over appearance, which means I spend many days without a certain above-the-waist foundation garment. It ain't pretty, but it's sure comfortable. I prefer to go barefoot, too. (The younger son gets that preference from me.)
Since I work from home, nobody sees me. Except the UPS deliveryman and, occasionally, the USPS letter carrier. Their opinions don't count toward my sartorial preferences.
It's always a shock to see myself in the mirror, because I remember being slender. I was slender for most of my life. (In my mid-thirties, I had a smokin' hot figure and indulged in lots of pretty clothes.) However, advancing age, a hypoactive thyroid, and a sedentary lifestyle have wreaked their predictable fate upon me.
Yes, I resent being fat, especially because I do try to eat properly. At dinner, I'm the one sucking down the vegetables or salad. I usually cook with olive oil instead of butter. I infrequently indulge in anything deep fried. I will admit to bread being a dietary weakness, but try to balance that out with having oatmeal or grits for breakfast every so often. At family gatherings, I'm the one standing by the relish tray and munching on raw celery and carrots instead of cookies and ice cream. I'm even making an effort to reduce sodium in my diet.
Still, my body expands and my weight increases.
A couple of years ago I decided to get back into forced exercise. For three months I exercised. I lost not a single pound nor a single inch. Discouraging to say the least. Our family physician closed up shop and I went to see a new doctor. He took a look at me and told me to eat fewer cheeseburgers without ever inquiring as to my diet. (In my entire life, I have maybe eaten two cheeseburgers. I don't like them.) The word I have for that doctor isn't suitable for polite company. Needless to say, I never went back and my already low tolerance for the medical profession disappeared.
Exercise is a four-letter word. So is diet. I quack myself with dietary supplements. Currently, I take green tea extract with reveratrol and curcumin, cinnamon, fish oil, and a daily multi-vitamin. I was taking ginger, but my tolerance for multiple supplements hits a hard stop at four pills every morning. The green tea extract is supposed to promote energy, weight management, and cardio health. The cinnamon is supposed to support good metabolism. The fish oil is said to promote brain, heart, and joint health. I hope the multivitamin catches whatever the food and supplements miss.
I don't hold out hope that quacking myself will have the desired effect (a defined waistline once again). But, if they do help, maybe I'll live long enough to see my boys married and the grandchildren they give me. Then perhaps I can corrupt the kids with ponies.
Therefore, to answer this weeks' prompt: Dressing up is a chore. Give me a warm summer day with a loose summer dress and bare feet, and I'm good.
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