Over the weekend I had the chance to spend a giftcard at a local clothing store. My two daughters came along for the ride, though I explicitly stated that I was only buying stuff for me, damn it, and that even if they decided to try clothes on, we would not be bringing them home. “Ask Santa!” I commanded, “and for God’s sake, stop fighting!”
I ditched my girls as soon as I walked in and began grabbing items from the racks. A pair of jeans, two pencil skirts, a workout ensemble. I even found several possible replacements for my favorite cardigan; MIA since summer. Ignoring the still-arguing sisters, I continued to forage for interesting pieces. After another 20 minutes, I finally hauled everything into a dressing room and began stripping down.
As I bent over to free a foot snagged in a legging, I caught a glimpse of my thighs in the mirror, illuminated in all their glory by sub-standard fluorescent lighting. I almost fell over. What the truck is that? For a brief moment I thought someone else was in the room with me, for surely those could not be my legs!
I forced myself to do some deep breathing and to look again. My ultra-pale skin showed hundreds of lumps and pock marks and generally-unsightly fatty deposits from my knees to my rear. How can this be? How can I look so good in clothes but so hideous in the buff? Had I sported these hams around in a bathing suit?
I’m not going to lie; the next word that came to mind was lipo. But who’s got the money or recovery time for that? Not this gal. The thrill of shopping dampened, I pulled on the way-too-tight jeans and the weirdly-cut workout pants anyway. Nothing below the belt looked even decent in my now self-conscious view. Or maybe some did, but I’d been so traumatized by my horrid fatty-mic-fat legs that I couldn’t tell. Even the sweaters now appeared dowdy and old-fashioned. Wallowing in self-pity, I began packing up, and soon became aware of my girls a few doors down.
They were laughing hysterically over each other’s clothing selections and thrilled to be playing dress-up in clothes they knew they couldn’t own. As I listened to their hilarious banter, it hit me. Who cares if I have Oompa-Loompa thighs? I’ve somehow managed to raise a pair of extraordinary daughters who really love each other.
So this Thanksgiving, instead of focusing on my aging, repugnant body or my lack of new clothing to camouflage it, I’m going to appreciate my children. My silly, annoying, wonderful children. Here’s hoping you find something to be thankful for too. Peace out.