I went into uber-deficit (read: very bad weight training) mode in the four days leading up to my formal affair, so as to compensate for my hair and make-up inexperience. The best thing the dress had going with it was its slink factor. I donned big jewels, big lips, big hair (inadvertently channeling Sandra B. -to show solidarity!) little dress, and a hundred and thirty-sex pounds (that's right, 1-3-6) of primp and confidence. Judging from my ex boyfriend's inability to make eye contact for the first hour after I made my entrance, I think I can say I killed it.
The three ensuing weeks have been filled, not unlike the moist sugary centers of creme-sandwich cookies, with moist sugar. I scarfed a half-dozen Dunkin' Donuts the morning-after (after brunch); the floodgates open, I rediscovered pastries, ice cream, whiskey, pasta, and, most winningly, accessibly and destructively, creme-sandwich cookies. Pleasingly, it took about ten days to gain any weight at all - I was still all narrow boy-belly and golden tan until just last week, when I reached, and hovered comfortably at 140 lbs.
One forty. As a Big Girl - accustomed to shouldering Big Girl inconveniences (the ill-fit rompers, the involuntary air of austerity, the dreaded Big Spoon Syndrome) - the number haunts me. I'm -dare I say it? - self conscious. It's not a Big weight to be sure; but while my build is stubbornly svelte, and my clavicular lordosis* lends itself to the appearance of delicacy, there's simply something about being Big that runs counter to femininity. (135, on the other hand, ekes out 'winsome'.)
Numbers aside, though, it's got to be said that I look better at 140 lbs. I don't apply "too thin" lightly - I admire thinness, aesthetically speaking. Taylor Momsen, in a skeletal blaze of cigarette smoke and cigarette jeans, is addicting to look at. There's something ethereally striking, almost academic about a really willowy woman - the prominent leanness of Angelina Jolie supersedes, in my mind, pin-up types (quite low-brow, really) and athletic figures.
Of course I realize that weight isn't a particularly relevant component to endearing appearances. A 98 lb Jessica Simpson retained, albeit on a smaller scale, her bux.
Angelina, meanwhile, makes a lanky pregnant lady. The frame on which one carries one's weight is the determinant of perception - and mine, as it were, isn't "skinny". Infuriatingly, I look "too thin" without actually being too thin! The frumpy turn of phrase 'being comfortable in one's own skin' is the inevitable solution.
*Not a medical term
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment