Month: May 2021

Coming of Age, Vintage chicks lol

Resolution Execution

Vintage Chicks lol

As a lark, I wrote this silly ditty about my hideous (to my mind) body. In my younger days it was simply known as “Removing Ribs or Your Skull — Whatever it Takes to Be Slim.” Nowadays they call it Body Dysmorphic Disorder. I sent the ditty to a health magazine that was looking for New Year’s Resolution stories. My take on a lifetime of starving myself was rewarded with a prize of about $400 worth of natural health and food products. I know, I know. The irony. Anyway, if you know a young woman who obsesses about her imperfect body, pass this along. Tell her not to wait until she’s in her sixties, like me, when she’ll no longer care about having the perfect body because she’ll be too busy cramming for her “finals.” Tell her to celebrate her body, pamper it, nourish it and be brutally honest — tell her she will never be perfect because no one is perfect. Well, except Cindy Crawford. She’s perfect. She’s soooo perfect. The Bad Viv wants to force feed her buckets of fudge cheesecake and chocolate eclairs until she breaks out in pimples, cellulite and Type 2 diabetes. But I digress …

Resolution Execution

For 40-plus years on January first

I resolved to lose weight, but my body was cursed

There’s always that 20 I think I must shed

But low and behold, it’s all in my head

It started in high school, no more and no less

No shame of my body, but the mind? What a mess

A skinny teen sneered, pointed and laughed

“Piano legs” she trilled, adding “and a fat ass.”

I reeled, embarrassed and to my dismay 

I saw my reflection — no longer okay 

Lettuce, boiled eggs begat famished, demented

Yet,

I was skinny! 

A lifelong obsession cemented

But no matter how slim, it just didn’t matter

I saw only my belly as my ankles grew fatter

Diet-fatigued, several decades later  

I fired myself as my own body-hater

I resolved to eat whatever I liked

Good fats, avocados, peanut butter delights

Don’t forget the red wine, it’s good for the heart

Dark chocolate, fresh peaches, shrimp cocktail to start

Oh, I lamented, all the years that I squandered

My body was normal

I blinked, quite bewondered

And now, on my walks, I may glimpse the reflection

Of that healthy, old woman who won my affection.

Photo by Ashley Piszek on Unsplash

Cover photo by Isi Parente on Unsplash “Girl in white holding plate”

Vintage chicks lol

Making Memories I Can’t Remember

Vintage Chicks lol

Last week, I was enjoying a takeout meal and a glass of wine with my friend, Marcia, at our monthly StayIn Wine & Dine when she suddenly asked how long I’d been married. (She didn’t add “this time” which is why she is my friend.)

I paused for a silent brain debate — was it 13 years? 14? 15?

Gently coaxing, she asked, “OK then, when is your anniversary?”

“Uh, the 30th? 28th? No, wait, I remember — the 29th!”

She glanced at her phone and then at me, “Today is the 29th.”

“What?! Oh, my gosh! I’ve got to go buy a card and some kind of gift!” I jumped up, gulped down my wine, grabbed my things and sprinted out the door.

In a small town at 8 p.m. shopping options are always slim — a grocery store, dollar store, drug store or liquor store. The only other option was a 30-minute drive to the nearest city to find a department store. We hadn’t been married long enough for me to make that kind of sacrifice, especially on a weeknight when I’m normally in my pajamas and wrapped in a furry blanket by 9 p.m.

I masked up, chose the more-expensive dollar store (nothing but the best), grabbed a gift sack, tissue, a package of briefs, some outdoor solar lights, a few energy drinks and a large bag of peanut M & Ms that said, “I’m Not Sick of You Yet.” The rack labeled Anniverary Cards was completely bare, so I made do with a Thinking of You card that said “Let’s Keep in Touch.”

It would have to do. The important thing was that after 15 — no, wait, 13 years — I had finally remembered.

It’s really not my fault. We flew to Vegas to get married, our plane was late on arrival and there was a three hour time difference, so by the time we actually made it to the chapel and got married, it was nearly midnight on our Indiana watches. The entire wedding event transpired over 72 hours at the end of the month, so the exact day was somewhere between the 28th and the 1st.

I walked in the front door, plopped the beautifully bagged underwear and M&Ms on my husband’s lap as he was sitting in the recliner and said, “Happy Anniversary!”

“What?” he frowned quizzically.

“You thought I’d forget, didn’t you? Well, I didn’t,” I said smugly.

He looked at me for several long seconds and said, “Our anniversary is May 29th.”

“I know,” I said, beaming.

“Today is April 29th.”

Damn it.

Marriage has no guarantees. If that’s what you’re looking for, go live with a car battery.

—Erma Bombeck