The version of me people get when they see me isn’t reality. It’s the squished version that holds all the wobbly bits at bay.
I rise in the morning. Everything is loose: My pajamas and underwear are loose. My sagging boobs are loose. My sagging belly is loose. My hair is loose. Then I pull my hair into a ponytail, put on some pants and underwear that squash in the saggy belly. Put on a bra that slings up the saggy boobs. Wash the face of night oil and lint from the pillow and put in contacts so the world is seen clearly. Squish it all into a passable package. Live the day like this, then let it all free at the end of the day for sleeping and start all over again.
I used to not be so saggy. In my youth I didn’t require clothing to hold it all in, except for my hair, which since it is naturally curly has always needed taming. But then I pushed out two humans who took up a lot of space in my belly and then let them each nurse for over four years and voila! Sag. Ah well, I wouldn’t trade them for it.
I exercise much more regularly now than I did then. Some version of weightlifting, pilates, and cardio is a part of my daily routine, yet this can’t hold a candle to young unstretched muscles. I’m likely much stronger, but you wouldn’t tell it by looking at me in comparison to my younger self.
Sometimes I get started on squishing everything in and get distracted by something else. I go half done for a bit, either the top or the bottom living in its sleeping version. Once whatever it was is over then I get back to putting it back together.
Fabrics play a large role in all this. I can only stand a certain amount of squashing and only by certain fabrics. I’ve tried Spanx and those things. They make me bat shit crazy. Too tight. Too binding. Too everything. (Do NOT auto correct me, damn you, WordPress! I know what I’m saying! Gads I hate that shit.) The fabric cannot itch. If it itches, I can’t wear it. So many clothing out there seems to me to be designed to torture, but I’ve learned from observing others that many are not nearly as princess and the pea about fabric and binding as I am. Otherwise how could they wear what they do? Or wear mismatched, upside down socks? Seriously. I don’t understand. I feel something stabbing and will discover it is a speck of sand. This is not an exaggeration. It has happened. There is no way I could stand wearing clothes that are too tight, made of lace, and crawling up my butt crack (lace thongs, anyone?). I shudder at the thought.
In any case. Off I go, squished and wearing clothes that hold but don’t bind, made of fabrics without edges that poke. I’m ready to conquer the world! (Not really. Conquering just isn’t my style.)