I recently went through an exhausting semiannual ritual — the dreaded closet swap. In our colonial home, storage space is at a premium and anything off-season resides in garment bags under the eaves of our third floor. Twice a year, I empty the closet and wardrobe in the tiny dressing room that separates our bedroom from my teenage daughter's, then refill them with items appropriate for whatever season is looming. Sandals are replaced by boots. Polo shirts are replaced by turtlenecks. Capris and camp shirts by wool pants and jackets.
In theory, anything that is out of style (or simply out of favor), is put into a Hefty bag for the school thrift shop. But, in truth, I keep most things, telling myself that shoulder pads will be in again or that I might wear those size 6 jeans someday. (If I contracted a tape worm, maybe.)
This time, I went into it determined to be ruthless. Lately, I've felt the need to purge, to live a lighter life by shedding some of our accumulated accoutrements, prized possessions, bibelots, objets (oh, admit it already Alex, the word is "crap"). The closet swap was the perfect opportunity to test my new resolve. I vowed that I would look at my fall and winter clothes with a more critical eye than ever before. If there's something I haven't worn lately (like in the past two or three years) or don't absolutely love, it's outta here. Most of all, if there are clothes that are too small, gone. Gone baby gone!
Despite what some might think, keeping "skinny jeans" is not an inspiration. It's more like a condemnation. We have been conditioned to believe that the words "pretty" and "skinny" mean the same thing. Opening the closet and seeing anything that is too small just reminds me of how much I've lost — or, more aptly, how much I've gained. I'm 52; I've had a baby. As Mammy would say:
"You ain't never going to be no eighteen and a half inches again. Never. And there ain't nothing to do about it, Miss Scarlet."
I'm proud to report that I did indeed donate an unusual amount of clothing this year. And, I do feel better when I select what I'm going to wear. Everything in my closet actually fits. (What a concept!) In fact, I don't just feel better, (dare I say it?) I feel pretty.
To celebrate the overdue eviction of my skinny jeans, I'd like to share a current video: Meghan Trainor's "All About That Bass."
Yeah, it's pretty clear, I ain't no size two
But I can shake it, shake it
Like I'm supposed to do
'Cause I got that boom boom that all the boys chase
And all the right junk in all the right places
I see the magazine workin' that Photoshop
We know that sh*t ain't real
C'mon now, make it stop
If you got beauty, beauty, just raise 'em up
'Cause every inch of you is perfect
From the bottom to the top
Yeah, my mama she told me don't worry about your size
She says, "Boys like a little more booty to hold at night."
You know I won't be no stick figure silicone Barbie doll
So if that's what you're into then go ahead and move along
Because you know I'm
All about that bass, 'bout that bass, no treble
Well done, Meghan! "All About That Bass" is great fun and a great lesson for girls of all sizes and all ages.
Just hope my daughter and her friends learn it before they're 52.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
The next time I go to a party or on a vacation and wish I had stayed on my diet, I'm going to remind myself that it's worse for lobsters.
Yes, for lobsters.
If I gain too much weight, I might have to go up a size in jeans or wear a longer jacket. If they gain too much weight, it's "Sayonara, suckuh."
Size matters in today's world, and the prize isn't going to the biggest. Well, maybe the biggest loser. What's the single most flattering thing you can say to a woman? "Wow, have you lost weight?"
Even in high school (when the chubbiest of girls still has it all over her same-weight mother, gravity being decidedly on your side when you're sixteen), skinny is where you want to be. My own daughter, whose figure is practically perfect thanks to ten years of posting on a horse and manual labor at the stable afterwards, complains about the size of her thighs.
But again, unless we're talking morbidly obese to the point of heart failure, for most of us, weight fluctuations are not the end of the world. Alas, for the lobster, they just might be.
In order to protect the species (and assure delectable lobster bakes for generations to come), each state establishes strict guidelines on what does and does not constitute a "keeper." This is one of the things my husband had to prepare for when he got his lobster license several years ago. He was taking a scuba diving course with a friend. We happen to live in an area with a professional lobster trade, and as a licensed amateur, you can dive for lobsters or put out as many as ten traps for private use.
"Think how much money we'll save!" he told me.
I couldn't resist bursting his bubble just a little. "Um ... how much were the classes? And the equipment? And the license? How many lobsters are you planning to catch?"
He was undeterred. The first lobster he caught was long enough but too skinny. Way too skinny — like, Olsen twin skinny. In fact, I felt so bad for this anorexic adolescent crustacean that I insisted we release it back into the wild. We put it in one of our daughter's pails, took it down to the local beach and waded in toward a bed of rocks. The little guy (or gal) was stunned at first but then scurried away.
Traditionally, lobstermen and women have pulled their traps and then used a caliper to determine if the lobster is a "keeper." If not, it's thrown overboard to, assumedly, live and grow until its caught another day. The trouble is that lobsters are better suited to crawling around on the ocean floor. When they're tossed back in from a boat, they float like little underwater hang gliders down through unfriendly water. Bigger fish think "It's rainin' lobstah! Sweet!" The little guys may not be boiled with butter, but their chance of survival has been significantly diminished.
So the industry (including some innovative lobstermen from our town) invented a better system. Today's traps include a generous one-way entrance and a much smaller escape vent. The "bugs" that are too small to keep, sell, boil and relish leave the trap while it's still under the water. The larger ones are ... well ... history, albeit delicious history.
Here's the lobster conversation I imagine inside the trap:
"This party blows, I'm out of here."
"Me too. That bait was totally overrated."
"Let's just squeeze past the crowd and out this side door. Ooph. Tight fit. Made it."
"Wait for me. Errrgh. Ugh. What the ...?"
"I told you to lay off the crab dip! I told you to go to the gym! 'Later, alligator."
So, you see, the world of lobsters is much like the world of high school (and much like the world of middle-aged moms). Emaciated supermodel Kate Moss once said, "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels."
Except, maybe, lobster.
If you enjoyed this post, order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
