So here it is, a couple of weeks into summer, and, well, you know that summer body I was supposed to have by now?
Clearly not happening.
Not this year anyway. I used to be in pretty decent shape. I worked out several times a week. I hired trainers to torture me every six months or so. I've donned headphones and run umpteenth miles on the treadmill. As a result, I've had the chance to watch men's eyes slowly gazing downward towards my chest during conversations, and had an inkling of what some of our better endowed sisters have had to endure. Frankly, I liked it.
However, two ruptured discs, gall bladder attacks and subsequent surgery and injuries to both knees and my right forearm all in the course of the last eighteen months have conspired to make me fall way off my gym routine. The fact that I've also come to hate my gym and everybody in it has not helped matters one bit.
I have a nearly seven foot tall pile of neatly folded t-shirts, none of which look particularly good on me at this moment. As their collected value is higher than some small nation's gross domestic income, clearly something has to be done. Of course, the fact that many of these shirts no longer seem exactly age-appropriate weighs on my mind, but none too heavily. I mean, what's the problem with a 54 year old in a skateboard t-shirt? Must I be condemned to a lifetime of Maude-wear?
But I waited a little too long. Oddly, even though I'm not all that comfortable in my skin this season, a whole lot of other people seem to approve of my newly acquired, um, coziness. A young man of my acquaintance, after I'd complained bitterly about my current shape typed: "well, get over it. I like you all broke down". So comforting.
I've noticed my popularity has only grown since I've added the avoirdupois. I may not be lovin' myself right now but a whole slew of guys seem to have a midsummer hankering for silver haired middle aged beef, if a bit run to seed. I'm not complaining.
In just a few weeks time, I'm heading up to the beach, and strangely, just when you'd think I'd be in a panic, I'm actually fine. I'm temporarily essaying that middle aged over-the-hill preppy look, and I must say, Bleeding Madras is my friend. As are seersucker shirts in Lily Pulitzer palettes. I'll still stomp around in a black motorcycle t-shirt or two, just to keep things interesting, but don't be surprised to see me decked out in Orvis, Pendleton or Vineyard Vines.
I seem to have received a new mantra:
Basically, I just don't care.