I'm technically supposed to be writing my last paper of the semester, but something happened this morning that was so funny, and to which so many women can relate, I had to share.
It's a long story, but I'll start from last night's dream I had that my husband was trying – while we were on a family vacation – to trade me in for a "supermodel with a bikini wax." At one of those informational centers they have in state parks, he filled out a massive questionnaire. The questionnaire was clearly a Spanish assignment my daughter showed me yesterday. She had to fold a paper into fourths, write the name of each season on a square, and under that write Spanish words describing each season. But in the dream that morphed into my husband writing things he wanted, one of which was to trade me in for a better model. Literally.
I've been feeling more inferior than usual, lately, - well, for all my life if we want to take it back that far. This morning I woke up feeling old, washed up and useless, as my husband - in my dream, but that never stops certain women (ME!) from blaming a man - would prefer to have a hot supermodel than a woman beginning to get those "fine lines" cosmetics commercials say make us look like old prunes. Those commercials featuring women without anything resembling a wrinkle, making the product seem to perform miracles.
So, as I was getting dressed, I noticed that while my waist is starting to whittle thanks to copious amounts of exercise, my former baby-holder abdomen is taking longer to reduce. I began calculating what size fetus I could still adequately carry in the current space, should one find the need. Which it won't. Ever again.
I found, in one of my dresser drawers, the sort of waist/abdomen sculptor so many females own. It still had the tags on it, so I knew I hadn't worn it before. I wondered if this could help control that abominable abdominal region, and decided to try it. It slips over the head, ideally. In this case it was so tight I got stuck with my arms straight up in the air, unable to pull it up or down. In my panic, I thought I'd have to either call for help – which would be so embarrassing I'd never bring myself to do that (preferring to live the rest of my life with my arms stuck straight up in the air, pretending it was a natural malady) – or cut it off. And by "it," I mean the corset-like "unit."
I could NOT move. I stood there regarding myself in the mirror, recalling the Muppets on Sesame Street that walked around with their arms straight up in the air (I think they were aliens), thinking this would be funny were it not so scary. And had it happened to someone else.
After a few deep breaths, I calmed myself enough to pull the "unit" down to my waist and abdomen. The mirror confirmed while it did whittle things a bit, that unfortunately, above the "unit," was a brand new roll of fat that doesn't bulge when I'm not strangling my mid-section like Jack the Ripper on a date.
I'm wearing it now out of necessity. There is no way this thing is coming off again without my either becoming a contortionist or using a sturdy pair of scissors, so I may as well take advantage of whatever improvements it's supposed to make – new roll withstanding – while it's on.
When I cut it off there'll probably be an audible rush of air pressure, and such a huge sigh of relief people will offer me a cigarette. My waist and baby holder will pop back out, jiggling like Jello (registered trademark), only this time they'll have deep lines engraved into them, to complement the stretch marks. My diaphragm will be able to expand fully again, enabling me to breathe like a human instead of panting like a dog.
Now I know what it felt like to be a proper lady in the Victorian era, minus the six foot wide skirt. I thank the goddess I live in the 21st century.
The lesson is, let Paul trade me in for a supermodel if he can. I'll go live in a commune where women shun spandex, don't shave legs or underarms, eat chocolate cake for breakfast and wear mumus. At least I'll have the use of my arms, to which I've grown attached.
Now that I've told my story I feel better. I can go work on homework. Maybe.