Desperate in DC

Sucking It In!

Dear C,

So good of you to come shopping with me yesterday pm - how clever of you to think of throwing the cherubs in aftercare! It's a cold, lonely world out there, when one continues to shop in stores where the combined ages of the assistants still fails to match one's own, so the moral support you provided was invaluable. Ditto the awesome way you stared down the Nicole Ritchie lookalike, who attempted to wrestle the last pair of skinny jeans out of my arms. So what if she can slip into them with narily a sigh escaping her lips, whereas yours truly has to cantilever her beer gut over the waistband? Does she not understand that for mothers like myself, the low cut look is no longer a question of fashion, but necessity, in the same way that a sweater tied round the hips has become the new millennium's version of the Edwardian bustle - artfully designed to disguise what's really going on back there.

Speaking of which, I am sure it has not escaped your hawk-like attention that all the weight I boasted about losing as a result of all my recent medical tests has returned with a vengeance, and more. It must warm the cockles of your generous heart to see that my body appears to have a homing device programmed into those five surplus pounds, calling out to them, through the subtle use of dessert, to return to the mothership as soon as the dinner bell rings. Scheduling further invasive procedures as I sign off,

Faithfully,

P.

P.S. Hope hubby and the cherubs bought your line about high-level talks. I believe the German Chancellor is still in town, after all. Let me know when the all-clear is sounded for me to drop off your bags.

Re: Sucking it In!

Dearest P,

I only wish our search for the most sublime outfit yesterday had resulted in what I discovered today was the perfect outfit for the children's book publishing party at their school: a tennis dress.  I must confess one must have the figure for such a look, and unfortunately this mother did.  I do fear the little problem I have with the size of my arms (not to mention the unsightly wiggles) would preclude even a real flirtation with the look.  The real point, however, is that it was clear this mother had just come, just that moment, from a rousing game of tennis.  It was, frankly, much the same look theoldballandchain has nearly every afternoon. 

Apparently, there are people with so little else on their plate that they are able to skip off and play and play to their heart's content.  When I noticed a nanny whisk the child out of the gymnasium and on to afternoon activities, I nearly cried tears of joy.  I think we could be friends, this mother and I.  I must confess, however, that I find a more discrete approach to one's pleasures a necessity.  Tennis dress, maybe, but at least make a show of chauffeuring Jr. home before asking the nanny to take over.

Well I'm off to find a tennis outfit (although I don't play) that's much more like a full body scuba suit.  It may not have the same effect as said mother's display of skin but one must keep trying in this town, after all. 

Faithfully,

C.

Yoga Bliss

P,

In an effort to re-direct some of my postpartum middle excess to the bodies of lithe young twenty somethings, I have joined a new yoga class full of just said type.  The studio director, BS, is, shall we say, skilled in the ways women long to be touched.  Although it's clear he prefers certain body types over others, he doesn't discriminate against us olders, assuming, no doubt, that our pocketbooks may be much deeper than those much younger.  I've never been a sporty type, and I do so hate to impose my own rigid views upon others, but I think I may have found my bliss, and think you may find yours too.

The obvious question is whether we ask our other halves to join us as they may learn a thing or two about sublimated desire and heightened satisfaction deriving from a less is more approach.  I'm afraid, dearest P, they may only discover they too love this man which really only raises more issues than it addresses, doesn't it?  No, I think we emphasize the girly aspects of downward facing dog, and all the attendant benefits they may get from it later, and spend a good hour every day or two sowing our own wild oats, if you know what I mean.

I'm off to lunch with hubby who says he's managed to leave my new panties at the office and will give them to me today.  Can't possibly be he shopped for them at that little sex shop near DuPont Circle, can it?  If so, he'll need to explain AGAIN why AP needed more than her once weekly counselling session with him and how they just happened to wander in together after an intimate tete a tete at Johnny's Half Shell.  Well, I suppose if she stays it's worth it, right?

Faithfully,

C.   

Re: Yoga Bliss

C,

Does BS stand for what I think it does? If so, it only confirms what I always suspected about yoga, although part of me secretly longs to believe you can really can achieve Nirvana by wrapping your legs round your ears.  Touchy-feely is always good too, although I fear I can offer neither riches, nor youth to your yoga guru.  What if he by-passes me altogether?

Actually, my greatest fear is that he will single me out for special attention, as is the wont of most exercise class teachers.  Even in my physical prime - that blissful time back in college, where I touched down at 115 on the scales for a brief, shining nanosecond - they still felt compelled to correct my every move.  Once a fat kid, always a fat kid, I guess.

Sorry if I inadvertently threw a marital spanner in the works re. your missing undies. I guess I just have lingerie on the brain right now, ever since you sent me that chain email about the husband who was forced to bury his wife in her latest Dupont Circle purchase, simply because she was saving them for a special occasion she never lived to see. Think the moral was meant to be something along the lines of seize the day, but what if she never wanted to be buried in titty tassles and a leather thong?  Speaking of which, they get to be damned uncomfortable pretty quickly, as I discovered this AM when waiting for the school bus in 30 degree freezing rain.

Faithfully,

P.

Laws of Attraction

Dear C,

As I continue my sojourn in the land of the Mad Cow, and home of an alarming number of islamic fundamentalists, I have been struck by the sheer nunmber of young, attractive THIN people I see on the streets of London.  To my extreme consternation, dear C, this group even involves a fair number of mothers!  Whereas in DC, you are often left wondering whether the woman pushing the stroller is the mother or grandmother of the infant involved, here you are left wondering if she is the au pair, and if not, how she can possibly have procreated so many times and still have the washboard stomach of a teenage boy.

Could it be, dear C, that Londoners are simply more attractive than the inhabitants of DC, or is there something about being surrounded by so many other women who are clearly making an effort that forces the average London female to count her calories in a way we pretend to, but don't?  I notice, by way of proof, that the laws of attraction do not seem to apply outside the Big Smoke, for the youth of my parents' home town are as large, if not larger than those around DC.  Which forces me to conclude, dear C, that while we wait for the next generation to grow up and overtake us, DC may be the best place for us, after all.

Faithfully,

P.

Re: Laws of Attraction

P,

I always admire your ability to discern, and so thoughtfully, the truly important qualities that allow a woman to shine.  In DC, however, perhaps unlike in London, where all the pasty faced skinnies luxuriate, we Americans find another quality as important: having a great deal of money and/or power. 

Yes, it's true: come to any DC book club gathering and find yourself riveted by the remarks of the woman who has landed her money the old-fashioned way: she inherited or married into it.  Lest you think this is a woman resting on her laurels, who has let her body go and her frizzy hair run amuck (although I share similar qualities, I am alas neither well-married nor an heiress), I must advise you otherwise.  This woman, dearest P, can not only eat whatever she likes but she knows how to endow charities as well.  As everyone here is somehow connected to one non-profit or another, she plays them like a well-tuned violin, asking for and receiving their fawning attention.  Her opinions are important and she's more than happy to tell you why.

So lest you believe it is only through some greather strength of will that the women in your homeland starve themselves to perfection, I can only defend my brethern with the knowledge that we all find ways to survive in the jungle.  American women may never have the bodies of teenage boys, however sad that may be, but we are all fully able to eat like one.  We are, if nothing else, a practical people and know the extra weight may help us if the worst is yet to come.  While your women drop like flies, we'll still be just fine, living off the fat of our mid-sections.  Comforting thought, that.

Faithfully,

C.

Beer and Donut Diet

Dear C,

It seems, ever since I've been in Florida, that I have inadvertantly hit upon my own version of the South Beach diet - you know, the low-fat, low-carb form of torture no doubt currently being practiced on prisoners at Guantanemo, along with other sadistic practices (but that's a subject for another time).  My own version consists of limiting myself to one donut and beer before noon, and allowing myself only one slice of key lime pie after dinner, the size of which doesn't matter - at least that's what the oldballandchain has been drumming into me all these years.  By adhering to these strict rules,  I've managed to gain only 5-10 lbs in the last couple of weeks, although exact measurements are hard to guage, ever since I mysteriously threw away the scales. Yes, I will be returning to DC considerably fatter, and happier than when I left, but the way I choose to look at it, it could be soo much worse.  In fact, I'm pretty sure the looters of Baghdad would tremble at the sight of me cutting loose in the supermarket on a mission to eat everything  I wanted.

But now, if you'll excuse me, it's time for my stretching exercises: how else can a girl be expected to reach the last bottle of Corona at the back of the top shelf?

Faithfully,

P.

Re: Beer and Donut Diet

P,

I'd like to be the first to welcome your chubby thighs back to the 'hood but I feel, as always, your protestations of porking up are merely another ruse to make the real fatties 'round here feel better about themselves.  And I only feel worse. Instead of berating you for your failed attempt at fitting in, I'd like to give you a few real "chunk it up" tips and encourage you to spend the next couple of days practicing my "pretend to be thin" philosophy:

1)  Start two days every week with strenuous aerobic yoga but be sure your breakfast intake far exceeds any calories you may have expended at such an ungodly early hour.  And don't hold back on the days you're not doing yoga either.

2)  As your day started at 5am, lunch is at 10am and the mid afternoon second lunch is at 3pm--I've started calling it tea in your honor. 

3)  By 6pm, when I feed the kids, I am, shall we say, "working up an appetite" and often find their pasta, nuggets or even a green vegetable too tempting not to nibble.  Sometimes I'm forced to begin their meal again completely when I discover my "appetizer" was their dinner.  You do know that I cook for four cherubs, right?

4)  By the time hubby arrives at 8, I've had my anticipatory cocktail (and one for him too) as I prepare our evening meal.  I feel terribly bloated, of course, but no longer care! 

5)   I often don't eat the nutritious meal I've made for hubby and he does worry about my appetite.  I attribute it to nerves, and childcare, and always fail to mention everything I've eaten since we've last been together, which may include more than our pantry holds. 

6)  I fall into bed exhausted, and perhaps in need of an ice cream treat as I read "White House Nannies" and know my job is far worse than theirs and with much less pay.  I justify my excess with the knowledge that morning exercise is just around the corner, even if it isn't scheduled for the next day.

Oh, and dearest P, it isn't at all necessary to make the scales disappear.  I'll send youngest cherub over when you return and when you can balance her on your scale and when it still reads "0", you'll know you've got it right.  I have no idea what she weighs but I assume she's growing and this should allow us to eat far and wide into the future without fear or guilt.  Raise that Krispy Kreme high and proud, my friend.  Oh, and any of your Lilly dresses that no longer fit would be sooo welcome here. 

Faithfully,

C.

Forgive me, C, for I have sinned

Dear C,

I feel so used. So scared and ashamed. Oh sure, it was a thrill at the time - frankly, I've never felt so alive, so free. I even thought  I might perhaps get away with it - just this once, you understand. And I've been so good for so long! But the truth of the matter is that no woman can be expected to withstand temptation like that. I mean, there He was: a great big hunk of mouthwatering lusciousness, calling out to me from the kitchen counter. One lick, I thought, and I'll be satisfied. But of course I wasn't. One lick turned into another, and soon, the juices were flowing and my appetite knew no bounds. I don't mind admitting: I took my fill and then some. Now, of course, I know that I must pay the price, and that it will be a heavy one. All I ask, dear C, is that you and your kind not shun me completely. Let me serve, instead, as an example of what happens to a woman when she strays from the path of virtue even once. And all for the sake of a slice of cheesecake!

Faithfully,

P.

Re: Forgive Me, C, For I Have Sinned

P,

Falling as it does on the heels of your oldballandchain's recent exodus on business, one might say your recent fall from grace simply replaced one obsession for another.  For a woman claiming to have an insatiable appetite, I find your professed lack of restraint charming and, quite clearly, the reason for your waiflike appearance.  As I watch hubby struggle to replace a recently discarded vice with food and other more carnal activities (reminds me of our dog before his recent neutering), I wonder whether the old habit was, in fact, such a bad one.  I will not, therefore, disclose, dear P, how often most indulge in the passions of which you speak.  You would, I'm afraid, be mortified by our lack of discipline.  Carry on, dear P, and I will send hubby down to help you through this difficult time.

Faithfully,

C.