I hear them say silly stuff like, “I will never forget the day my braces were finally removed! Just in time for my driver’s license picture!” Or “For several weekends in a row I searched for my dream dress in a size 2.” Or “When I was 34, I finally stopped stuffing my bra.”
Don’t get me wrong. I remember those miracle years.
If I wanted to lose 12 pounds before the weekend, I could do it. There was no puking involved, either. Oh yeah, I had a killer waistline and thighs that never met each other until I turned 50. I also have a faint memory of seeing my pelvic bones whenever I stretched out on a raft at the beach.
When some 50ish friends and I discussed this topic a few days ago, we agreed that waddling our big hind ends down memory lane these days has different yesterdays attached to the trip.
One friend grinned as she shoveled the rest of a hot fudge sundae into her pudgy face.
“I remember it like it just happened last week,” she said with a sigh. “Four days after my 38th birthday my beautiful biscuit buttocks turned into dangling pancakes. If they aren’t contained in granny panties, my butt cheeks could pass as mud flaps.”
“Oh I feel your pain,” another friend whined. “During the winter of 1998 my knees grew double chins. I didn’t see the tragedy until the following spring.”
This year, ladies and gentlemen, I have gained at least 11 extra pounds a month by simply sniffing fresh yeast rolls, chocolate donuts or sugar cream pie.
As if that’s not enough of a nightmare, I recently discovered that my metabolism has gone through yet another change.
I now have the apparent not-so-super power of envisioning fattening foods.
That’s right. It isn’t necessary to smell it.
I just think about it.
And whoopsie … fat globs suddenly appear on my thighs.
Right this minute I’m trying to get a handle on the caloric insanity of my life.
All afternoon I’ve been at war with my lard-loving thoughts, trying to fight off the development of more dimpled disappointments on my torso.
When something amazing like gravy enters my mind I stomp out the tasty moments by thinking about something awful.
This morning, when I caught myself jonesing for a Pop-Tart, I envisioned a pair of powder blue, polyester, elastic-waist pants as my only wardrobe option.
And the newest community of fat globs disappeared.
When I wanted a greasy piece of pizza for lunch I replaced the craving with a picture in my head of my jelly belly encased in a bikini.
Again, mind over matter kept the cellulite from taking over.
On the drive home from work my stomach growled louder than the music on my Aretha Franklin CD.
As soon as I thought about scarfing a couple of White Castles and a box of Twinkies on the side, I felt my caboose immediately start to grow wider in the car seat.
“Uh oh,” I said in a panic. “Hurry! Think Sherri! Think fast! Lose that appetite!”
So I conjured up a perfect mug shot of my least favorite ex-husband.
“Wooo boy,” I sighed. “That did it. Yep, it sure did. No appetite. None.”
Sherri Coner is an award-winning journalist and humor writer who speaks to women’s groups. To learn aboutw her books for women and to join her on Facebook, visit www.sherriconer.com.