Nice hair, you skinny twenty-something beeeoch.
The year was 1986. Michael Jackson was the king of pop and the width of women's shoulder pads were outdone only by the height of their hair. The year I saw a photo of myself in a white snowsuit, declared that my rear end looked like the back of a truck, and threw myself into dieting and exercise. Merciless exercise. Relentless exercise. Being age 26 with little else to do outside of work, I swam laps at the community pool, "felt the burn" with Jane Fonda tapes, partook of the Jazzercise craze, joined a dance class and even a cross country ski group to make use of Michigan's blustery winters. I bounced up and down in my sister's tiny NYC apartment, beseeching her to join me as I skipped along to my aerobics video, adorned with Flash Dance leg warmers and torn tights. She winced at me and continued to read the paper.
Within six months I was 15 pounds lighter with nary an inch of body fat. So hard were my abs and buttocks, you could flip a coin off of either area and it would fly across the room.
After the body came the arrogance. Well, I assured myself, I will NEVER gain weight. I will NEVER stop exercising. I cannot STAND women who have babies and let themselves go. What do they do with all their time, anyway? Paint their nails and arrange baby booties? I will NOT let myself go. NEVER! Whenever I spotted a woman with a haggle of kids and a little extra bulkage around her midriff, I sniffed in disgust because I, MaryJane Natale, was dedicated to good health and rock hard abs. Period.
Fast forward to 2010. Age 49. Mom of three. Consulting business. Slow metabolism. Crazy busy. Junk food in the pantry.
The good news: I'm not gross. I'm "hanging in there," as a nice young woman at the gym recently told me. The bad news: If I try to flip a coin off of my abs it gets stuck in the folds and then drops to the floor. I still work out, but it's not as easy as it used to be. My schedule doesn't coordinate well with aerobics classes and in-home exercise equipment ends up being used for wet pantyhose and Christmas ornaments. The hyper pace of my life has put me a little out of sync with daily exercise, and I'm batting at three times per week at best.
So it's come to this: I just bought a pair of Skecher "Shape Ups," guaranteed to "help you get in shape without ever entering the gym!" Of course I know this is a bogus claim. Even if these ridiculous-looking shoes exercise my legs, they can't do a thing for my arms or cardiovascular health. Still, what the heck. They're worth a try.
Help me, oh crazy clown shoes...
If I could go back in time and tap MaryJane Natale's 26 year old shoulder, or better yet, her rock-hard butt, and show her these shoes, she'd smirk. Such a loser, that middle-aged mom, she'd think. The bottom line is it doesn't matter, because that 26 year old had a very small frame of reference from which she based her very strong opinions. I wouldn't trade my family for anything, and if a few squishy parts are the debt to pay for an incredibly full and satisfying life, so be it. I'd tell her to kiss off. Better yet, I'd tell her to kiss my soft posterior. After all, not only do I have a lot going on, I manage to stay in good health AND I have a hunk of a husband who, after 20 years of marriage, still thinks I'm HOT!
So here's to a soft rear end and big clown shoes. I'm okay with them, not because of how they look, but because of what they represent. Take that, Miss Natale!
About 10 years and nine months ago, Chris and I looked at each other. One more baby? Maybe. With three kids already and one with special needs, did we need our heads examined? Most likely. But we took the plunge, and on January 26, 2000, our New Millennium Baby was born. Now it's impossible to think our life could be complete without Karenna Rose Mudd--but call her Jazz, thank you very much. She likes the name because it's her very own brand: A feisty, funny, creative, singing, social, off-the-charts extrovert. The one I lock horns with on a daily basis because she reminds me of someone I know...but my nickname isn't Jazz.
