Didn't I Feed You Yesterday__ A Mother's Guide to Sanity in Stilettos - Laura Bennett [44]
“I am not getting undressed,” she said.
“You have to,” I replied, grabbing another dress on our way. The room was packed, as feared, but I didn’t care. I shepherded Rachel to a slightly more protected corner and we quickly peeled off our clothes.
“What are you wearing?” she exclaimed, looking over at me while trying to keep her thonged backside to the wall. “A girdle?”
“It’s not a girdle, it’s a power slip. And instead of worrying about what it’s called, you should be asking me where to get one.”
“But you don’t need one of those—you look great.”
“I look great because I have one of these. Trust me, it’s the best diet out there.” There is nothing like the instant gratification of looking ten pounds lighter and twenty years smoother when you pull on a pair of Lycra™-infused bike shorts.
And now you know the cornerstone of my diet. There have been the most amazing, life-altering advances in technology over the past decade—the BlackBerry, Google, iPods. How did I ever research papers as a college student? Keep up with distant family members? Buy books? Friend my third-grade crush? I won’t do that last, but I could. I simply cannot remember life before broadband. These are all marvelous changes, but they don’t hold a liquid crystal display to the introduction of high-tech fabrics. A glorious cocktail of Microfiber, Lycra, Spandex, and Elastine instantly transforms my butt. I love my shapewear. Perhaps I exaggerate the degree to which I loathe my lowest asset, but I know very, very few women over the age of thirty who don’t have some body flaw here or there that wouldn’t benefit from a firm foundation. Cinch the waist, tighten the tummy, raise the rear: there is a shape shifter for every task. Women wear bras in order to lift and separate; why not wear a bra for your butt?
Speaking of the latter, I do not envy a dating woman who has to remove a pair of nuclear-powered knickers for an impromptu romp. There really is no sexy way to extract oneself. As Bridget Jones found out the hard way, those events need to be carefully planned and prepared. Happily, I’m at a stage in my life where I dress to please myself. Besides, a good girdle might be all that stands between me and baby number seven.
“Six kids! You don’t look like you have six kids.”
I have to wonder what people think a woman with six kids looks like. I suspect they mean, “You don’t look fat enough to have six kids.” News flash: having babies does not make you fat. If having babies made you fat, I would be huge. Beyond huge. Taking in more calories than you burn off makes you fat. I think women get lazy, then blame babies for the demise of their figures. I blame a lot of my problems on my kids—the fact that I have little free time, the fact that I am nearly deaf, the fact that someone came into my bed in the middle of the night and peed—but not the fact that I have a big butt.
I do have to give some credit to genetics. It’s easy to hide five pounds here or there on a five-foot-nine-inch frame. I have hardly won the genetic lottery, though, and I do contribute to staying in shape.
I am not much of an eater. And it’s not that I have food issues or a “disorder;” I simply don’t get a big kick out of great food. I’m what most people call a grazer. This does not complicate my marriage in any way, as Peter is not much of an eater himself. Every three days or so, he helps himself to a huge platter of fries and a bacon cheeseburger, and I rarely see him eat anything else. Because I don’t often sit down for a full, satisfying repast, I tend to snack my way through the day. A handful of Goldfish here, a tablespoon of Skippy