Dromedaries gone wild

I’ve never been on the cutting edge of fashion. My normal winter attire consists of jeans, sweatshirts, rag socks, and a truly hideous fuzzy bathrobe. After menopause, my weight shot up 20 pounds, and I did what most women do: I kept a crowbar in the closet to pry myself into my jeans for as long as I could before giving up and buying a larger size.

Photo courtesy of Wikipedia

Photo courtesy of Wikipedia

I freely admit to sporting camel toes and muffin tops in the meantime. I’m not proud of it. Recently I’ve managed to lose five pounds, which equates to one bag of flour and a little shame. My jeans no longer feel like instruments of torture. (I’d sing like a canary if anyone so much as threatened me with the rack, scraping their fingernails on a blackboard, or liver and onions.)

My daughter told me about a friend who had to explain to her 80 year-old mother what camel toes are. I can only imagine the conversation.

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Lord of the pants

Denim is one of the most forgiving fabrics on the planet. What other cloth will regularly put up with fannies that test the limits of double stitching? So last December when I bent over and got a sudden draft on my backside, I knew that it was time for a diet. Yes, the fabric that can support 642 pounds of cellulite per square inch ripped.

Back in the day when I used to dance around my living room just for the fun of it, my pants fit perfectly. Never mind that pre-menopause I had a metabolism that required me to eat twice my body weight daily to gain a pound. Now when I dance vigorously around the house, those excess pounds go flying every which direction. The neighbors close their blinds and the dog hides and whimpers.

I used to belly dance in college and still have the costume. I tried it on and decided that if the size of the belly determines the skill of the dancer, I’ve still got it. Yesterday I tried a kneeling back bend and, to my surprise, I was actually able to get down and back up without fracturing my hip. But when I stood up, I was reeling around the room as if I had just huffed a whole can of spray paint (gold). Apparently, my blood doesn’t return to the vertical position as fast as my head does.

Just for the hell of it, I’ve tried River Dancing in the privacy of my own garage. As far as I can tell, it’s just a matter of moving your feet as fast as you can and not slouching. I’m sure that if I were in a basement full of spiders, I would be a natural. I have a secret fantasy that one day I will tune into the Jerry Springer Show, and suddenly the whole audience will jump up and start River Dancing to show their appreciation of the blood-letting de jour. It would be an obvious ploy to boost ratings among the two people who actually enjoy Lord of the Dance.

I’m kind of disappointed that I won’t be able to go to the annual Grits Festival this weekend. Last year they had the local chapter of the Women’s Auxiliary doing precision line dancing in the middle of the street. There wasn’t one of them under 60. I wouldn’t mind learning a couple of their moves to add to my living room repertoire.

I figure that by summer I will have danced my way to be able to zip up my jeans and have the excess girth squished out the top instead of bursting through the bottom. If nothing else, since the neighbors have their curtains closed anyway, I might just forgo the jeans altogether. I’m already used to the draft.