I guess it's time for me to hit the closets again.
No, I'm not hiding in a storm shelter. Although, after looking at the numbers on my home scale, I might like to run, screaming from the room, like the Grinch: "How could it be so?"
I exercise. I green juice. I do yoga, tai chi, and I walk. OK, so I snack at night. That occasional half a cup of Tofutti ice cream or the soy yogurt isn't going to hurt my diet that badly, especially if it is going to prevent me from overeating the following morning. The body truly does need food in order to function. And it needs food to prevent it from going into hypoglycemia, or a low blood sugar incident.
I put on another two pounds. Yes, yes, I know, I can hear my gynecologist's voice in my head: "You should be sure not to put on too much weight now; when your body hits menopause, it will be hell to get rid of it." That was ten years ago. Thanks, doc. For some reason, this physical form doesn't want to comply with weight loss.
So, I just tossed a brand new shirt into the Goodwill bag. Along with it followed some tight jeans, a few cute pairs of shorts, and some tank tops that made me look like Two Ton Annie. Oh, and four bathing suits. And a partridge in a pear tree. (I was saving it as a snack in the back of my closet, lol.)
I hate when I have to get rid of something. Especially when it's pretty new. I'm not one to change my closet with the changing of the fashion tide. I'm one who likes to go with what works for my body form, my style, and what I feel most comfortable in. But when I have to get rid of things that haven't even lasted me a season, well, that just really sucks.
I'm sure my husband won't be complaining all that much. Considering his side of the closet is well maintained, neat, and orderly, cleaning out my side of the closet would make opening the doors a pleasure. No longer would the folding doors stick on a boot that was poking out in a disorderly fashion; no more would the clothes fall off hangers and cause the closet to look as though it were vomiting. I should go through things, but I just can't bear to part with anything. Then, in comes my teenaged daughter, who utters the word, "Hoarder", and I begin to toss indiscriminently.
She's another one who could use a few lessons from my burgeoning closet. And perhaps, if I can tackle the issue with the overpacked mess behind my closet doors, then perhaps I can also handle the overpacked physique which belongs to none other than yours truly.
It's the best I can hope for. After all, menopause has pretty much struck. It's now up to me to decide whether or not I want to age gracefully or become a sow.