The Pudge Grudge

Figuring Things Out

Start with Part One: The Pudge Did Not Budge
Previous: Part Two · Where’s My Goddamn Cadillac Body?

I want a Ferrari body.

There. I said it.

I want the body I have been promised by every before-and-after photograph, every miracle protocol, every woman in a fitted dress who appears to have negotiated successfully with gravity. I want to wake up one morning and discover that my postmenopausal persistent midriff pudge has finally received the message.

PMPMP.

I want to stop carrying a pudge grudge.

I want to wear my favorite dress without feeling as though it fits like a sausage casing.

An expensive sausage casing, selected by a woman who did not anticipate becoming the filling.

Oh, ho, ho.

I’m not finished.

I’m still on a roll about my midriff roll. And I am still angry about it. I have spent enough time, money, attention, and emotional energy trying to improve myself. I have done the research. I have tried the things. I have eliminated variables. I have eaten the oatmeal.

Now I would like my Ferrari body, please.

I used to be proud of my ability to figure things out. Give me a problem, some information, a little time. I would find the answer. And if there wasn’t an answer, I would keep thinking until there was.

This worked well enough in enough circumstances to give me some very dangerous ideas about the scope of my expertise.

My life, for instance.

I could figure that out. By myself. Even when the available evidence included a handle of vodka, Netflix, and the increasingly obvious fact that I could not stand being me. Asking for help was apparently less appealing than continuing to demonstrate my competence in a situation that was killing me.

Eventually, I ran out of plans and schemes. Other people helped me live long enough to discover that my thinking might need some supervision.

And yet, here I am. Still trying to predict the future, write the script, and outthink life.

Now with oatmeal.

My postmenopausal persistent midriff pudge has become an especially absorbing assignment. I keep believing that if I understand enough about it, I will outwit this deposit of excess adipose tissue and banish it from my existence. Surely, that is not too much for me to figure out.

There must be something I haven’t considered. Something I haven’t tried. I have improved all sorts of things, but I cannot seem to outthink the part of me currently straining the fabric of my favorite dress.

Surely that is a battle of wits I can win.

This morning, a little diamond in my reading stopped me: I am the person whose company I will keep for the rest of my life. What kind of company would I like to be?

Well.

Would I choose to spend most of my time with a woman who keeps bringing the conversation back to her abdomen?

She can be funny. I’ll give her that. But we could be at a dance class, on a walk with Chris, sitting outside on a beautiful morning, and she would still want to discuss the disappointing return on nine months of investment in her waist.

I know her. She’s capable of missing quite a lot while she figures something out.

Months ago, I wrote that even on a desert island I would want emotional maturity and a willingness to face reality, because otherwise I would be my own worst company. Apparently I have now furnished the island with a full-length mirror and internet access.

I would like to spend more time with the woman who dances, writes, notices things, and can be made helpless with laughter. I like her curiosity. I like her nerve. I even like her vanity, in reasonable doses. She has some fabulous dresses.

I would like her to wear one and come out with me, without making me listen to a report on its fit all evening.

The woman doing the reporting is me, too. I can hardly solve this by giving her another list of improvements. Become better company by Tuesday. Stop obsessing. Achieve spontaneous joy.

Jesus. I can turn anything into homework.

For now, perhaps I can laugh at the sausage casing, ask for help when I need it, and let something remain unfigured-out while I go to dance class. I have been enjoying the way I’m changing. I would like to give that pleasure a little more of my attention.

Still, I want the goddamn Ferrari body.

It’s on my list.

I would rather enjoy the company of the woman driving it first.