"Post-Partum" Pin Up

Some of you may have read my previous post about falling off the "mature" wagon for the Summer between semesters.  Three days ago, I might have said more accurately that I had... well, jumped overboard, burnt the wagon, and danced on the ashes of adulthood to some window-shaking jams.

My Friday, however, began with a redemption of my former old-for-years self.  I had my first day of orientation at the hospital's gift shoppe as a fledgling member of the auxiliary.  Being safely returned to structure and the predictable mundane of procedure, I breezed through my checklist.  I even managed to re-stage some of the product in between compulsive dusting.  It was a refreshingly productive morning, which bore no hint of the ego-deflating accusation that would come only hours later in the form of sharp confirmation that my previous fling with youth revisited was nothing more than an illusion of days (and legs) gone by.

The continual wrestle for identity that we all face was in tilt, and I decided to balance my peach apron experience with an outing to help a friend shop for vacation clothes.  My friend (who is a celebrated style guru, dedicated to pop couture at all costs) needed some serious beach bling.  To this end, we visited a store that will remain un-named, but is a popular staple of celeb-like, rocker glitz styles in almost every mall across America.  It is not a store I frequent, although I fully acknowledge it's legitimacy in the race for fashion forward.  While my friend was wearing evidence of previous visits and looking the part of a true patron, I was still in "volunteer mode" (auxiliary dress code = 1950's definition of office chic).  A pause....

At this point in the story, I can only explain the store clerks' interest in me by hypothesizing their recognition that my once-couture mary jane shoes were a hot item back in the day. 

While I was looking through racks for things my friend might like, I was frequently interrupted by sales people proposing that I "just need to try [this or that] on".  My consistent dismissal was to tell them I was not buying and wasn't even shopping for myself.  But when approached with a strapless, leopard-print bubble dress, I finally said, "No, thank you.  This isn't my style, and I need to lose a few pounds before I buy any clothes."  To my shock, amusement, horror, and almost every other human emotion under then sun, the store clerk responded, "Why?!  I think you're adorable.  Did you just have a baby?"  Another pause....

I thought it was common knowledge that, not only do you never concur that a woman is "fat", but you also never ask ANYONE not in active labor if she's pregnant!  These are sanctified rules of human relational engagement.

My response: "Well, I suppose that would have been fun, but no."  Add to the unspoken, "I think your outfit is sagging on top.  Maybe you should try that stretchy dress."  As if committing a social mishap of that magnitude had no effect on the drive to sell, I was still harassed by more options -- the most obscene of which, for a "woman in my [apparent] non-condition", being a form-fitting, silver-sequined tube shirt.  Again, add to the unspoken, "Sure.  Let's cover me in foil and draw MORE attention to my aging and neglected abs.  We'll call it a tribute to the Hindenburg disaster."

At any rate, my friend found her island digs (and looked equator-worthy hot, by the way), and the mall walk successfully re-aligned my orientation to life's irreversible homage to the chronological nature of things.  Thus, today I eat veggies, tan in the sun like a beached whale, and lament for my former self -- knowing that, beneath the "3rd degree [as in college] blubber", I'm still in there somewhere.  And for your information, [store remaining un-named], I will not be wearing your tacky-shack stretchy dress or sequined blimp-maker when I emerge.