Uncomfortable
I didn't weigh in today. Had to get up early and get all the kids off to Vacation Bible School by 8:40 a.m.
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I'm at that stage of chubbiness where I can't find anything to wear. I'm self-conscious about the roll of fat around my middle. I am an "apple," roundest at the mid-section. (I was grateful to have found a stash of size 14 pants that didn't get donated because I thought they were "too nice" to give away last year. Now I have something to wear while I whittle these pounds off my body again.)
Today I picked a red shirt, plenty big, but clingy at the fat rolls. Freaked out by my flabby sides, I chose a "body shaper" to wear under it, a constricting garment designed to smooth out the fat. And while I chose to believe that the shaper did its magic, I didn't really study myself in the mirror, so perhaps it was a mental trick.
By the time I dropped off the kids and returned from the grocery store, I could hardly wait to rip off that undergarment. I thought to myself how unique this type of torture is to women. Do ordinary overweight men wear girdles or complicated waist shapers that cause underwire bra-induced armpit pain by the end of the day? I think not. They also opt out of painful footwear, for the most part.
I have no conclusions, just wonderment that we women endure discomfort in our effort to camouflage our bodies, blend in and appear a particular way.
It kind of makes me look forward to being old and infirm when I can wear a long flannel nightgown all day and no one will think any less of me. (Truth be told, no one cares as much as I do about how I look.)