I was never thin. Actually, I was. Once upon a time. Not so thin like a friend who needed to eat 6 bananas daily to increase weight. But lanky enough to lie next to my mom and wonder why she is double my height when we are horizontal. Being slim had scores of advantages (and some disadvantages too). I could run faster than my friends, I could eat whatever I wanted to and everybody still said “you need to eat more”. But then I had the same flatness, front and back. Clothes stuck to me like a scarecrow. My mom used to say my bony arms stuck out like sore thumbs, ouch.
And skinny I stayed through my teens and through most of my 20s. So it was all hunky dory till I was blessed with a growing baby inside of me. Once the little fella was born, I realized I was just about 15 kgs overweight from my previous skeletal state. Now that was unacceptable. I no longer fitted in my old Jeans and I needed baggy clothes to hide my protruding belly and bulging arms. That was quite unappealing to everyone including my husband and I had finally become abundantly abundant.
For a few months I stayed put. Maybe I will be back to normal after a few weeks, months..and also because the doctor advised so but what I did not realize was; that was the new normal. After about 6 months, I had had enough and I decided to join one of the many weight loss programs, meant for the vain, with a singular aim in mind. I need to fit into my old Jeans.
6 months of long brisk walks, prescribed diet and many exercises later, I managed to reduce by 12 kgs, which felt really good and I was back to (almost normal). Almost since the car tyre on the belly had become a cycle tyre, but did not go away and I was destined to live with it for the rest my life, or so I thought.
For the next couple of decades, I kept going through the cycle of anxieties of growing by a few kilos, back to exercise, gym, walk, diet, till I managed to get in better shape. I wasn’t fat, I wasn’t slim, I was (in my opinion) ok, with a teeny-weeny protruding tummy. Yeah, people never believed that and used to call me Tuntun and other names synonymous with fat aunties. Once out shopping (in my forties), a kid came and daintily draped the dupatta around my stomach “you should keep the baby wrapped” and I wanted to just sink in the ground.
But I could still fit into my clothes from 15-20 years back and though at times my belly button would amorously peep out from between the shirt buttons, I still considered myself not bad. My shopping size continued to rest at medium, but I did wish they made “a little more than medium”.
Then menopause hit. And hit. I could literally see myself growing in leaps and bounds. But denial is the first response. I am fine, I told the mirror, so what if the T-shirt feels tight, I can breathe, right. What if my shape has started resembling a balding guy with a paunch larger than his man boobs. I can still fit into a medium. Maybe they should make larger mediums. I have so many lovely clothes from across the world and I need to fit into them. BTW, the tyres started resembling Humvee ones now.
Then the to the second stage. I have to do something. I am not eating rice for next 6 months. I am down to one chapati. I am going to skip breakfast. Red poha is better than white poha. Only skim milk for me. I can stay hungry for another hour. Salad for the hungry soul. But even food for thought went straight to my thighs And so on…till Zero. Not size zero, but zero impact. Zilch. Nada. The belly button continued to torture me and the tights became tighter. My metabolism sucked and became moti-bolism.
Finally came to terms, the comfort level disappeared and I realized I had to start looking at large and maybe even extra-large, deva re deva. Nothing seemed to fit a pear-shaped body. Whatever was beautiful was only available in small and medium. Designers and retailers never seemed to make anything nice for the Indian rice eating, achar lover shapes. It either does not fit or looks like a sack. Who calls it out of shape, round is a shape as I even read in class VII Geometry. I guess menopause is like the second puberty, instead of growing tall, you grow far and wide.
All my clothes went into cold storage. I mourned for that dress from Singapore and the shirt from Munich and the skirt from Vegas as I folded each of them and tucked them away. Will they ever see light of the day again? But then there is always a silver lining. My wardrobe is empty and the + size stores are beckoning me to come hither.
Who dare cares if I am fat? No, I am a woman of substance, a little more substantial than others, so what? Tere baap ka khaya kya? Mera maal, meri charbi. Shape or shapeless, my life, my choice. I will devour that one more paratha, and finish the last pizza slice. And kachori is my all time favourite. Burrp. Anyway in your fifties you need that extra cushion. My daughter in law must be thinking, why is my supersized supermom double my size when she is lying down. Karma!
Cut me some slack, literally , I don’t fit otherwise. How can you expect me to be smart, sarcastic and slim ? I can’t be perfect you know.
myhumerousbone 