…is that weight moves off top to bottom. Therefore, while all the fat has run off to the land where dissolved fat goes, from my cheeks, the fat on the butt is still to get the memorandum from the brain that their transfer orders have arrived, and theyve to pack their holdalls and get a move on it. Therefore I am walking around looking like the living dead, half tempted to do a Marlon Brando and stick some socks into my jowls. Maybe I could patent the mumbling too.
Also, the lung area dissolves. Mind you, the word is dissolves. You feel the fat deposits melt away and drain out of your body, and voila. Where you had mammaries before, there you have fried eggs on nails. Therefore, the bras which needed you to breathe in deep before hooking now feel like you’ve put in Cotton Balls into socks. All your bravado about having accessories unto themselves dissolves as well and you realise the need to make up your face prettily because now folks will actually be looking at you eye to eye.
Clothes which you patted yourself into are now easily slide into-able. Which cuts out around five minutes of your morning routine which consisted of take out outfit, struggle to get into it, fail miserably, or get into and figure out the number of lumps and bumps sticking out at odd angles could get you arrested for being a public eyesore, then rinse repeat the dress up process with three to four different tops, until you give up and wear a guaranteed super duper triple loose fit top which was originally conceived as a circus tent, which also would allow me to roam around unhindered in Taliban infested areas, being in such vibrant and noticeable colours like Black, Black and Black. Getting into clothes at first shot is so not on. I miss my hopping tantrums of ‘Nothing fits me, I need to shop’, which had the hubby raise sardonic eyebrow and say, “Maybe you need to exercise.” He is a very brave man. Yes, I agree. He is the kind of man you would trust to come between you and a raging bull and have said raging bull back down and turn tail and run. He is a man who pulls no punches when asked “Does this make me look fat?” The guaranteed answer was always,”If you are fat, you will look fat.” Tell me, does that not by itself guarantee him an Ashoka Chakra for bravery kind of award. Now of course, when the clothes slide on with relative ease, he says nothing. Nothing at all when I ask him the blighted question. A little reinforcement would be nice, I say. He thinks it will give me a fat head.
Then there is the issue of expecting not to fit into tight spaces and turn oneself sideways to sidle in, much to the amusement of onlookers. And then realising there was enough leeway for the hips to pass through without getting embarassingly stuck, and need help in being extricated aka, a heave ho from a kind onlooker or a push from behind from an unkind one.
The best problem I really am looking forward to is the one that makes me lose the invisibility cloak that draped me with the weight. Anyone have that too? Folks stop noticing you when you have a little extra kilos on your corpus collossus. In queues, at shop counters, in crowded situations. You get pushed back, you get ignored, you get delayed service. You get very very angry. You have to yell and yell to make yourself heard. And then you become the angry, fat old person, constantly muttering to herself, and swinging her shopping bag at unsuspecting passersby. Getting back in shape gets you out of invisibility zone. And that, I could definitely do with.