I’ve decided that I’d be toothpick-thin by now if it weren’t for food. In fact, I gained 5 pounds yesterday simply walking past a cake. I’ll admit I may have had a small sliver and was then forced to slice off another sliver in order to even up the row. Yet, I’m sure most of the weight gain occurred by simple osmosis.
With summer just around the corner, it just isn’t safe to have cake around the house. Cake isn’t safe in the hands of a woman who can gain 3 pounds eating her own words. In fact, I should load up the leftovers and ship them to a house where people can eat freely and still drop a pants size.
To make matters worse, each and every advertisement this time of year asks the same thing, “Swimsuit season is rapidly approaching, are you ready?”
Oh, I’m ready all right. I’m ready to go back into the house and spend the summer hiding under the pretense of being a busy mother. Ready to hide behind the children for family photos and behind overfilled shopping carts when I’m in the store.
For the most part, I’m shaking in my boots. Already, scantily clad women are appearing everywhere. Sporting the new summer lines with sun tans and shaved legs, and I’ve not even had time to get my knees ready.
Thank heavens, not all spring and summer events require svelte figures and firm upper arms. In fact it was quite nice the other night as the other mothers and I gathered round for our first baseball game, sporting lounging garb and baggy attire.
As we unfolded our umbrella chairs and set up a nice little spot, we chatted about the usual: dirty dishes, laundry and children who became bored 20 minutes into their summer vacation. Just as we were about to sit down, I asked the inevitable, “What kind of nut designs an umbrella chair that my rear end won’t fit into?”
“It’s the same quack that designs waistbands that shrink an inch every season,” replied one of the gals. “I have little or no chance of fitting into a one-size-fits-all line at the discount center.”
“I hear ya,” said another. “My husband and I have enjoyed so many rich desserts over the winter that we now have to do synchronized turning when we’re in the same room together.”
Then Fanny, who had been quiet up until that moment, quickly and without warning blatantly announced, “I have some good news.”
Good news could mean lots of things to a 30-something mind-set: anything from a job promotion with a personal assistant to the long-lost recipe for Aunt Agnes’ peach cobbler.
“What is it?” we all asked, leaning in.
“I went shopping yesterday, and you gals simply won’t believe this. Turns out, I’m a pants size smaller than I was just last month. And here’s the kicker — I’m not even dieting.”
There are times and there are places for a woman to announce she has dropped a pants size.
None of which come to mind. And certainly, a ballpark, in the springtime, amid a group of women who’ve been trying to get swimsuit ready since January of 1999 is most definitely NOT the time.
Dear, sweet Virginia, a gal known for her composure, replied, “Gosh, girl! That is great!.”
Then Hazel continued to be cordial with, “Good for you, you are truly blessed.”
But I think Esther spoke for all of us when she said, “You dropped what? You did not just say you dropped a pants size when you weren’t even dieting; because if you dropped a pants size when you weren’t even dieting, then you should know that you are so out of the club.”
Not that we had a club, but if we had a club, then Fanny would certainly have been expelled from the club at that very moment. Nobody but nobody drops a pants size. And without trying to drop a pants size? Why, it’s unheard of, unprecedented, and is more than likely illegal in most states.
“I don’t know how it happened,” Fanny continued. “The weight seems to be just melting off me.”
Well, if that doesn’t tear it.
I’m loading up the rest of that chocolate cake and taking it to her today.
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” Her e-mail address is [email protected].