"You're So Vain"...Celebrating Physical Changes - Yes, Virginia, There ARE Disadvantages to Losing Weight!

Marsha Jordan, zany grandmother and undiscovered shower singer, began her writing career on the walls of St. Joseph's Catholic School. Her book, Hugs, Hope, and Peanut Butter earned an endorsement by Phyllis Diller and honorable mention in The World’s Funniest Humor Contest.  Jordan and her rocket scientist husband have been held hostage in the north woods of Wisconsin for over 30 years.  They share an empty nest with a strong willed toy poodle, King Louie, who rules the house with an iron paw.  Visit Marsha online at www.hugsandhope.org  or email her at hugsandhope@gmail.com

Yes, Virginia, There ARE Disadvantages to Losing Weight!

It's confession time. After losing nearly forty pounds, I've begun noticing some not‑so‑pleasant results of shedding weight.

Don't get me wrong. I love being able to wear size 12 jeans (BIG size 12 jeans, but size 12 never the less!) I'm happy that all this exercising takes me away from cooking and cleaning, which I've successfully avoided for three years. And it's wonderful to bend over and tie my shoes without cutting off the blood flow to my brain, or fainting from lack of oxygen. Having more energy is great too. I don't get out of breath any more from chewing gum or dialing long distance. Even the husband is pleased. He’s glad I no longer need a front end loader to lift my carcass out of the Lazy Boy.

BUT . . .  losing weight has its downside too. For one thing, I can no longer use my stomach as a serving tray; and my knees are always cold  without my belly to keep them warm.

Also, losing weight has turned me into an old woman. Fat stretches out wrinkles. Lose the fat, and the face begins to sag and bag. I have layers of crows feet ‑‑ no, they're more like ostrich feet. AND, even worse, I have pleats in my neck!

People no longer tell me I look young for my age. Now they offer me senior discounts and the early bird supper specials at 3:00 p.m. And boy scouts want to help me cross the street.

I can’t count gravity among my friends anymore. It's pulling everything southward, and parts of me that once were perky are now in danger of being stepped on.

I bought one of those lighted magnifying mirrors that blows things up seven times their actual size. Those things should be illegal. I looked like Grandpa Walton ‑‑ a puckered pile of flab with wrinkles and whiskers. The whole nasty experience plunged me into a state of third‑degree, age‑related depression ‑‑ which can only be treated with massive amounts of chocolate and soap opera watching. The store refused to let me return the mirror. They said the fact that it caused me to hyperventilate and fall into the bathtub wasn't sufficient reason for a refund. I’m sending them the bill for my twisted ankle.

I’m extremely sad. All this time, I've been living in that lovely la‑la‑land of denial. I had fooled myself into believing I still looked 29. Time to wake up and smell the extra‑strength age spot remover. Reality hit me right between my puffy eyes. My laugh lines are no laughing matter, and the black bags under my eyes are bigger than my feet. I could carry groceries in them.

Every woman wants to have cleavage; but on their face? My cheeks jiggle and sag lower each day like melting blobs of raspberry ripple ice cream. I'm afraid I'll awake some morning to discover that my face has slid down around my waist.

It seems that my youth has evaporated like spit on a hot griddle; and instead of aging like a fine wine, I'm more like curdled 2% milk. I’ve stopped being Barbie and became Mrs. Potato Head. (But maybe that part of it isn’t so bad. After all, if Barbie's so great, why do you have to BUY her friends???)

Between my droopy eye lids, crevices in my cheeks, a flabby neck, and dark under‑eye circles, I look like a cross between a racoon, a turkey, and an old coon dog. No wonder hubby calls me "Pet."

When I asked him how I looked this morning, Mr. Wonderful replied "Halloween was months ago."  I guess when he calls me "Floppy Face," it isn’t a term of endearment. Sigh…

Marriage licenses should come with a free shock collar. However, I do wish the husband would spend more time with me. I may be a hefty size twelve, but this Baby Boomer quickly learned how to turn her weight loss disadvantage to her advantage…I simply buy perfume that smells like boat motor oil.