Diet Shakes and Clothing Optional

I have struggled with controlling my weight my entire adult life and then some.  I can’t remember a time when I didn’t have three sizes of clothing hanging in the closet. (Remember the bowls in Goldilocks and the Three Bears?) One size is always just right while the other two batches of clothing hang there either taunting me or making me feel proud. If I didn’t see my doctor for biannual check-ups I’d probably have four or five sets of clothing and I’d have to grow a wart of a closet off the side of house, advertising to any passerby that a fatty-fatty two-by-four lives within. I’m not quite that bad about holding on to clothes I can’t wear, but it always amuses me how I can put on an outfit from Lot C (the big ones) when I should have grabbed something from Lot A and people will tell me I look like I’ve lost weight. I don’t like clothing that is skin tight, they give me hives. Literally. I’m one of those people who has to be careful about laundry soaps, fabrics and elastics that go next to my skin. If something even starts to tingle when I put it on, off it comes and I move up the line of porridge bowls trying to find the one that’s just right.

I used to know a couple who ran a nudist ranch in the nice weather months and while the idea of going without clothing would have some practical applications for me, I’d take one look at that fully dressed, robust figured couple and I couldn’t for one minute picture them or me walking around in public with all the assets hanging out there. I don’t mind looking at pudgy, naked people in a live figure drawing class and I’ve have done it many times, but seeing body parts and "muffin tops" all in motion on volleyball court would probably scar my sensibilities beyond repair.

I could, however, spend my in-the house time happily clad in a bathrobe. That was great when I was younger and I did it whenever I could but now that I’m elderly---and know too much about how the system works---I need to stop that before it gets me in trouble. It’s one of the signs Social Services marks down as an indication that an older person is losing it and can’t be trusted to live alone anymore. “Does your father get dressed every morning?” “Does he take a shower every day?” Those tricky social workers have even been known to poll the neighbors for “signs” of senility. I’m screwed! If I have nowhere to go I can usually be found happily typing in my robe until noon, I need a sign printed up that reads: I’m not senile! I’m a would-be writer and this robe is my work uniform. Do you think that would fool a social services worker checking out a report if a neighbor called in, worried that he spied me hugging my chenille bathrobe to my body as I’d wait at the door for the dog to come from the cold? And---gasp---it was after noon!

Yesterday I walked into a place my niece-in-law was telling me about. She’s lost 30 pounds drinking a supplement shake mix this place sells along with hosting a weekly support group. Oh, boy! For a mere $3.00 a week I can get a nutritious shake to drink while engaging in conversations about food and get the opportunity to buy goodies to fill up my blender so I, too, can make delicious shakes. For years I’ve been having a Slim-Fast shake for a meal replacement on a daily basis so this isn’t much of life style change for me. EXCEPT I feel the same way about using my blender as I do all the other appliances in the kitchen. I’ve tried, truly I’ve tried liking the activities that go on in that room. I’ve taken cooking lessons and I really do enjoy watching the Food Network but I just can’t work up a lasting interest in spending so much time making things that disappear so quickly afterward. When I plate up a meal that looks especially nice I want to grab a can of shellac and preserve like it's a piece of art.

Anyway, this nutrition wellness place has no long term commitment to sign and the niece-in-law that I’ll be attending meetings with and I go way back when it comes to trying to keep our weight in check---Weight Watchers, diet clubs, walking clubs and now this. My trusty, mostly unused blender will be heard twice a day until I find an excuse to revert back to my default, food grazing habits. The goal: Get rid of the Lot C of clothing from the closet. Actually take them out this time, bury them in a back yard vault and have the door welded shut.  As much as I know you should give away clothing when you lose weight, I can’t bear the thought of doing it. The fear of being a bag lady someday and not be able to buy big again, if needed, is deeply entrenched. I blame my depression era parents for that mindset, then came along my husband (whose own parents had the same mindset) to reinforce the notion that poverty can come knocking at any time. Doctor, doctor do you have a pill for irrational fears like that? And don’t even get me started on my rational fear of living in clothing washed in strong detergents and bleaches at a nursing home. I will die scratching myself to death and no one will know why this old lady keeps taking off her clothes and roaming the halls naked. ©