(Note: I told myself I had to post something, because it's been a month. And I told myself I would post something happy if it killed me, because frankly, there's been too much sadness lately. And so, in the tradition begun by beloved Freaky Troll many moons ago...this one's all MEMEMEMEMEME. Although, unfortunately, it lacks cake.)
Ah, that was the day.
One glorious day.
I awakened that morning lying on my side, knees threatening to leave marks on each other. For the previous few weeks I'd been sleeping with a pillow between them to avoid the accidental acquisition of nocturnal black-and-blue owies. (I get bruises just thinking about bruises.)
I actually had protruding hipbones and a concave belly (at least when I was lying on my back). I had palpable, visible uppper ribs situated smack-dab between my collarbones and bra-stuffers (which were, finally, in a state of absolute proportion to the rest of my body, maybe for the first time ever).
It had been a full year since I'd seen a photo of myself (taken during a glorious weekend at Pretend Farmer's and AZDavid's Scottsdale digs) that horrified me so thoroughly, I'd cut my rations roughly in half. And I kept that up for a full year.
That glorious day I tried on a pair of size 5 skinny jeans at a nearby outlet mall. I wasn't nutty enough to pay money to bring them home with me (I rather suspected, correctly it turns out, that I would only fit into them for twenty-three minutes, give or take) but I did take a picture. I wanted a souvenir.
Sigh. They were awfully cute. The unkempt hair, not so much...
I'd dropped a total of 40 lbs in a year.
It was the skinniest day of my adult life.
Now I had nowhere to go but...back up.
There is a term in the Japanese language I've adored since the first time I heard it, probably a decade ago, from my best friend. She used it a few months after her wedding.
It's not a derogatory term; quite the opposite.
A little extra chunk in the trunk (especially on men, but why should they have all the fun?) is a physical trophy of sorts. Strictly speaking, it describes the weight gain associated with newlywedded bliss. But there's no need to be quite that strict. It can also happen without the benefit of bouquets and vows and bad bridesmade dresses.
Shiawase-butori is an outward sign that you've met a special somebody and begun to...settle down.
Cooking commences. Eating out kicks up a notch. Snuggling on the sofa replaces running on the streets. Before you know it, somebody's poking you in the (increasingly soft) stomach, and you're giggling like the Pillsbury Dough Boy.
I'm claiming "shiawase-butori" today.
There is no conceivable way I could get those itsy bitsy pants up and over my hips now, a bare three months after hitting my Rock Bottom weight. And you know what? I'm surprisingly OK with that.
The difference isn't huge--8 lbs., more or less. They're the inevitable result of a full plate (in every sense of the word).
Put that all together with travel and sushi and fried clams and raw oysters and lox benedict and great deli and fresh pasta and good wine and crisp champagne and good cheese and artisanal salami and farmers markets and the county fair (chocolate-covered bacon, funnel cakes, corndogs, ice cream, fried butter, kittens...FRIED BUTTER).
Now, in April I'd have probably agreed with the old adage, "nothing tastes as great as thin feels," but...I made a pretty damned yummy lasagna last night.
So, fine. I won't be bruising myself with my own kneebones, and I'll probably never fit into itty bitty jeans again. But I'm happier than I have been in a long, long time, and I figure that's worth an extra inch on the hips.
Nothing says Friday night with friends like some shrimp and sausage pasta. By the way, O'Really? lied. Her Mr. Wonderful does have a twin brother. That's him.