Time passes

It's been a while since I last wrote here. That's probably for the best, since I might have spent all my time beating dead horses. As it is, I might beat a few anyway, but at least time will have passed since the last flogging.

When last seen, I was wearing a size 18 skirt from Talbots. Well, I can still wear that skirt, but I have since bought three size 16 skirts. They fit. I got a size 14 that I ordered today, which doesn't fit, quite, but which I now believe will. That makes two that I have in advance. Gives me a goal.

Most of the people I know are afraid to open their mouths about my weight loss, for whatever reasons, and I suspect those reasons are as various as the people themselves. But two weeks ago I went to a graduation party for my nephew and was nearly overwhelmed with compliments. A number of the people there hadn't seen me out of a coat since December, and in December I was not the woman I am now.

I have now lost 33 pounds. Yes, I slowed down substantially, but that's fine with me, really. I have time to get used to myself. Time to adjust. Time to shop!

Tonight after work, I decided to go to Starbucks for a treat. I had 12 points left for the day, and I've been wanting the orange mocha frappucino. So I got that, also the orange coffee cake that goes with it, and I'm figuring that was my 12 points. Good enough. So I went through the parking lots, up the hill to Main Street. There was a time when that walk nearly demolished me. When I was panting at the top of the (not very steep) hill. When my feet were aching, and I was limping because of my hip. Well, I might have been a tad bit winded tonight, but by the time I hit the counter, it was over. After I got my stuff and sat down and ate and drank, I headed back to my car. I worked all day in high heels, and I still had them on, and I noticed, as I clicked down the sidewalk, that I was going much faster than I normally would have. I worked on my feet, partly, all day, then taught a lesson, which was sitting, then closed the store, and I was still able to do that. It wasn't a hike up Mount Tom, but it was more than I could have comfortably done this time last year. So I feel good.

However--I know of someone who is NOT feeling so good about herself and her weight, and who is engaging in that most fruitless of activities, comparing herself to someone else.

Long ago, again, back in the Stone Age, when Seventeen had actual articles and not sound bites, someone wrote about breasts. Specifically, how everyone's were different, and how they all had their good points. I wish I had a copy of that essay, it was pure genius. I remember something about low-slung breasts, ideal for displaying a string of pearls...small ones, that fit nicely into bikini tops, lush ones that did something I forget. ( I can't think of anything that lush breasts do that was suitable for a body acceptance pep talk in Seventeen in 1973, but there must have been something). The point was, of course, that they're all good, every last set of breasts. That goes for body types, too. There are the women who are meant to be lush, cushiony, curvy. They will always have hips, they will always have breasts, they may not always have washboard abs (but then, your grandmother was damned happy to graduate from a washboard to a wringer washer) but they will be GORGEOUS. Just as they are. A few pounds one way or the other can of course make a difference in well-being, but not necessarily attractiveness. Then, there are women who are naturally rangy. They are certainly more streamlined, like greyhounds, maybe, and they may fit fashion's dictates of the moment, and they have their own sets of virtues, but there is no point in comparison. I often looked at my elongated, attentuated (toned!) trainer at the gym and thought how we could easily be from different species--but Kris was Kris, and I was myself. With great calves, and nice muscle control. You are who you are. You can't make yourself inot someone else.

Now for my addition to my collection of enchanting plus-sized women.

Her name is Wendy, and that's as much as I know of her personal business, other than the fact that she's divorced. I have seen her twice at the garage I use. I noticed her the first time, on a summer afternoon. She was wearing a raw silk (or at least it looked like raw silk) capri pant and sleeveless top set. She had her shoes kicked off and one foot tucked up underneath herself. By no standard can this woman be called slender; in no way does she fit society's standard. But I sat and looked at her and wondered how any man with a pulse could look at her and not want to pull her off into the nearest dark corner. Or, even better, the nearest pile of harem-style cushions, there to spend an afternoon enjoying the delights of the flesh, literally and figuratively. She was not conventionally pretty, Wendy wasn't, but she had the kind of face you want to keep looking at. Alive, perceptive, interested eyes. A strong nose, a mouth that, while not exactly lush, tempted. All this without any design--she exuded confidence as natural to her as her breath. I thought I had made her up, until I saw her again a few weeks ago. T-shirt and capris this time, and sneakers, I think. No less tempting. Just as unconciously emanating sex appeal, and something even more primal than sex appeal. Sensuality, that was it. Say it slow, savor the syllables. And all unknowingly. As we sat there, two not-small women, I was happy she was there. I thought I might get grandfathered in under her aura, and some of her natural glamour would rub off on me.