Saturday, November 20, 2010
Baby Want A Cookie?
You bet. But no more cookies for me to eat, just to draw. There's no calories in a draw.
I spent the last two weeks hunting for black jeans and trousers three sizes bigger than the ones in my closet. It was painful. Where once I loved to shop, now I cringe at the thought. Womens pants are made for teeny-boppers who don't mind flashing flesh, cold breezes, low rises and seams that ride up their cracks. Today's pants also seem to be made for women who play basketball. No shorty here at five seven, everything I tried on shlepped on the floor; I needed stilts--a pair of those five inch stelletoes might do. Disgusted, I came home bagless three times. Then I found a pair I thought was okay, but my dressmaker sent me back to the store. She didn't like them-- not only way too long, but also too tight and too low waisted. "Stop looking at the size number, Linda. Start looking at the fit. You're older now get something that has a waistband and loops." The nerve of the woman!
It's hard to stop looking at the size number. All my life I looked at size numbers. Low numbers were better than high. While Tim Gunn assures us the sizes in clothing have indeed become meaningless ( some mnf. like to fools us ladies into thinking we're smaller than we are), I'm looking at numbers on the scale that are totally over the top for a gal with a bum knee. A bloomin' ass does nothing good for no cartilage, a shredded meniscus, a tumor, water-- and something coming off the patella too. That knee needs loving care and me pounds lighter.
Heavier than I was this time last year, it's hard to look at fit. I don't know that zoftig woman in the mirror with no waist, a belly and a caboose. I don't want to. I want the lady back with less volume, the one who had a waist, a flat tummy and wrinkles. My New Year's resolution made early before the holiday foods tempt, I'm spinning on my bike to the tip of South America and laying off the cookies--except for painting them. I might just paint the Thanksgiving Jello mold too; it wasn't on the menu at the first Thanksgiving, why ours?
Cavemen of Altamira hand me a stick of charcoal, I've got some magical goodies to add to the bison--right after my sitting with Peter Paul Rubens.
(Honey just called me obsessive when I read him this post. Obsession, in my book, is determination, total focus and dedication. Any thoughts on that)?