Sure it was unnerving.
No one wants to turn around, examine their hind end and discover that it’s slowly dripping off their body.
But when my waist started traveling, that’s when I really had to rally some courage.
At 55 years of age, I now have a constant fear that I will wake up one morning with my waist under my chin. Who knows why it wasn’t satisfied with its initial address. Maybe it just got bored with my belly button.
I only know that while every other body part heads south, my waist is definitely climbing north. I can’t wear a belt anymore. Who wants a belt to buckle above their rib cage?
And now, let’s talk about boobs.
One of my single girlfriends told me yesterday that she never truly has to sleep alone, even though she divorced her awful spouse. When she rests on her back, both breasts slip under each arm pit and rest beside her on the bed.
“They spoon me,” she said.
I had that problem for many years, too. My gigantic boobs were slowly turning into one big flesh pillow across my chest. They were always in the way, too. And I won’t even tell you how many times I jumped away from my toaster oven after accidentally toasting a long, braless double-D mammary gland.
But last year, bilateral mastectomy took that woe away.
That was probably a blessing in disguise because now, without worrying that I’ll get third-degree burns on a runaway breast, I have plenty of time to freak out about the wrinkled skin curtain growing under my face. I think I have made it even worse by yanking on it when I get nervous. Sometimes I wonder about the possibility of folding some dollar bills in it and pinning it closed so I don’t have to worry about hauling around a purse anymore.
My biggest issue though is “Rotunda.”
She started growing, without my permission, of course, about 10 years ago. Now she is even larger. When I sit down, she sits right on top of my thighs.
Yesterday when I tried to wear a pair of jeans, Rotunda quickly let me know that she had absolutely no interest in being squished and squeezed. She gave me cramps that felt like contractions and an instant case of heartburn.
“Give in,” she hissed.
“No way,” I muttered. “I haven’t worn jeans for such a long time, and it’s all your fault.”
“It is your fault, ‘Gravy Queen,’ ” Rotunda laughed.
The more I tried to force her to stay put, the more she fought back.
“Give in,” she hissed again.
“Do it,” Rotunda growled. “Or you will be miserable all evening. I promise you that. You think your stomach hurts right now? Well, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
So yeah … I did it. I gave in. I unbuttoned and unzipped the denim corset.
But that wasn’t even enough.
I had to turn the car around, go home and trade the jeans for an elastic-waist skirt.
“Born free,” Rotunda sang happily.
“Shut up, Rotunda. Don’t bother me for the rest of the evening.”
“Have some of that chocolate cake,” she giggled. “You know you want to.”