15 or Bust….Phase 1….The Reckoning.
I’m a damned liar. Sort of.
A little over a month ago, I wrote about turning 36 in a post entitled: “A Facelift….”
At the time, I considered it a mature and honest reflection on life and aging.
I waxed all kinds of philosophical about how I have come to accept and even embrace the fact that I am not getting any younger. That my body is no longer the sleek new vehicle it once was, but is instead….not quite jalopy-like….but most definitely used….with a bunch of stories written all over it….and blah, blah, blah.
Now….I’d just like to kick my own ass.
Here’s the thing, I have truthfully made piece with the grey hairs that have sprouted along my hairline. I’m cool with the freckles (ahem, age spots) and the beginning signs of crows feet and laugh lines.
I’m good with the fact that even though I’ve only had one baby, I’m probably never going to have the abs of Gwen Stefani…. who has had three babies….but why keep score?
I’ll likely never have JLo’s ass, or Jennifer Aniston’s arms, or Taylor Swift’s twiggy little legs….and that’s fine. In fact, it’s probably best that Taylor Swift’s twiggy little legs are not responsible for supporting JLo’s ass.
In referring back to what I wrote, I said….and I quote:
“As I get older and my metabolism shifts from a sprint to a brisk walk, the best commitment I think I can reasonably make is to continue to do my best to enjoy all the good stuff in moderation and to find my exercise in the activities I love. Even if means I never again boast a six pack or an ass that won’t quit.” ~Myself
Yeah, OK, sure….but am I alright with an ass that won’t quit….spreading? No. I am not.
This past weekend, while away at our lake house, my family and I were enjoying a lazy veg-fest extravaganza. The kind of weekend where you change out of your pajama’s into cleaner pajama’s and play board games, binge watch tv and read. A true unwinding before the hustle and bustle of the holiday season kicks into high gear.
On Sunday morning, I took one for the team and agreed to hit the local market for a few lunch/dinner items. I changed out of my pajama’s….lying them neatly on the bed where they would remain only until I had returned to don them again….and I pulled out my favorite pair of old, button-fly Levi’s and a comfortable, slouchy t-shirt for the trip.
I hadn’t worn the Levi’s in months. Here in New England, Mother Nature has treated us to an exceptionally prolonged and beautiful fall. My go-to outfits have consisted primarily of leggings with light tunics or flannels paired with knee high boots….or loose fitting, long t-shirts with my all-time favorite sneaker, Converse Chuck Taylor’s….which I own in a shameful number of colors….and yeah, I’m really that basic.
Sunday morning was too chilly not to dress in warmer layers though and I looked forward to wearing those old jeans again. I bought them in 1999 when I was a sophomore in college and really couldn’t afford the splurge, but I’d had to have them.
Over the years, the fabric stretched and frayed in the best way and today, they look similar to the popular boyfriend style of jeans people buy in the same condition right off the rack.
On Sunday, when I slipped my legs into the worn and lose fabric of the jeans and pulled them north, they got stuck somewhere between the upper and lower hemisphere of my ass. I did a little jump and tug move, hoping the act would serve the same purpose as giving a measuring cup a tap and shake to settle its contents.
It worked, as long as I didn’t attempt to breath too deeply. Then I began to strong arm the buttons, working my way up from my crotch to my waist, each button requiring a significant amount of sucking and tucking and strength to close. At one point, I laid down, flat on my back, so that gravity would cause my girth to pool toward my back, allowing me to more easily close the final two buttons.
Then, as I tried to ease myself up, abdominal crunch style, I realized there was no way that was going to happen without literally busting a gut. I rolled over onto my stomach, pushed my torso toward the edge of the bed until my feet were touching the floor and then with considerable effort, I did a push up to launch myself onto my feet.
Once I was upright, I took a look in the mirror. I resembled a bag…. stuffed full of nickels. I could feel the buttons pressing hard into the flesh of my abdomen and I could barely breath.
As I stood there, taking tiny, shallow gasps of air, I wondered how this had happened. I’d worn these jeans many times since my son was born, more than three years ago, so this couldn’t possibly be the result of copious amounts of lingering baby weight and I didn’t recall packing on the poundage.
But apparently, somewhere between my love for dill pickle potato chips and binge watching Netflix, I slacked a bit in the excercise department and my Levi’s called me out.
“The time has come” the Walrus said, “to get your ass in shape.”