The first 3 days of any diet should include an exile from your family. The “Carb Detox” process involves obscenities, self-mutilation and thrashing. It also involves noise. While at work, my stomach growled like an in-sink-erator. It was its own vicious, moaning entity that echoed and bounced off all surfaces of the room. People raised their heads and looked around like deer who had just heard a twig snap in the wood.
Following the dark, first days, however, I fell into step. What rose from the ashes and Kleenexes, wet with the tears I shed mourning my beloved pizza, was a surprising and maddening high self-esteem. This lasted approximately 2 months until recently--“The Day I became a Marsupial.”
My previously “pillowy” lower abdomen, rather suddenly, has become an empty sack, held up on both sides like a hammock. Any skin-elasticity I previously owned has left the building. To sooth myself, I’ve been thinking up ways I can either disguise or USE this pouch for the greater good. Sheltering baby animals, “kangaroo-like” was out of the question without a mutual agreement regarding the use of claws and “nature calls.”
I could donate the extra skin and fat cells to the needy. The idea of being a “Flesh Farmer” amused me.
I can also use this pouch as a musical instrument, as became evident while playing a rousing game of “Guestures” which required me to jump. The flap hit the top of my thighs and made a “THWACK” sound. Again, the other players, like my co-workers, became a deer herd. If they’d had them, their white tails would have become erect, alerted to a mysterious, nay, alien noise.
“What the HELL was that?” my husband, Fred, asked.
Dieting can also be scary. I went to the clinic last week, certain I had tumors. I pointed to either side of my torso and said, “What are these?”
But it hasn’t been all bad. Finding old clothes in my closet that fit now is kind of a high, even though I would never wear them outside of my home. 47-year-old women in leopard print anything is just sad. I’m not quite into my 80’s androgynous wardrobe yet, but when I get there, I’ll be sure to post a picture.
I can just imagine the caption.“Michael Jackson’s white sister, wearing his red leather jacket and glove, finds place for “Bubbles” the monkey inside her own flesh pouch.”