I showered this morning and hurried into my closet to dress, freezing. I grabbed essentials and pulled them on without thought. Suddenly, I paused with body mind dissonance and a head shake of disbelief as I checked and rechecked the tag on my jeans. Yes, same size. But they couldn’t button—they weren’t even close.
I’m nothing if not persistent when faced with bodily dilemma, and so I took a deep breath and then held it fast while I stretched the two buttons across the divide. As I exhaled, so did all my fat—my stretch marks, lines of baby history: miscarriages, births, heparin shots; and other things too: the indulgence of baked goods, the joy of food. I put on a thick A-line sweater to hide the spill over and fervently hoped this was shrinkage caused by the dryer, and that the waistband will give by this afternoon. At least some. Pretty please I beg of you, Universe.
As I write this, the sweetness of blueberry muffins lingers from breakfast and the smell hangs in the kitchen. The snow tucks us up into our house, all the way to the back door, daring us to leave. My little boy nickers against my side, sippy locked into his mouth, his arms around my neck while I try and type. I’m balancing: early school mornings while baking, moving while snowing, typing while holding. I never could do all of this in my twenties. And maybe that’s the point.
I’m not who I used to be, and I can’t fit into her body. My 36 plus years are exploding out of it—too much for this skin.
Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself if the dryer theory doesn’t hold up.
How do you grow old gracefully?
What’s up with the middle age spread?
How are you handling the changes you can’t control with humor?
How do you balance what’s important with what is temporary?