That Awkward Age

Fashion is such a royal pain

 Now that the future queen of England, the former Kate Middleton, has reveled her well-kept secret, it's now time for me to reveal my own.

No, I'm not referring to her wedding gown per se, I mean the fact that she wore padding in the hips of her dress. Surprise! I've been doing that for years! In fact, since the birth of my third child 21 years ago, I've enjoyed the effect so much that I've not only padded the hips of my dresses, but also those of my pants.

And to be perfectly honest, I've also been cheating by adding extra stuffing to the waists, stomach and legs of my pants, as well as the shoulders and arms of my blouses. The only places where I haven't yet added extra roundness is the butt and boob areas, which I prefer to be flat and shapeless. No bustles or Wonder Bras for me!

I've even been able to perfect this look while wearing a bathing suit!

In addition to all of this, I've also been getting plastic surgery, carefully adding creases to my upper lip and loosening some skin that was too tight under my chin.

Very soon, I should be just about perfect and ready for my own balcony debut. Anyone seen Tim Gunn?

Photo: Video4net

I'm Dragging My Feet on Podiatric Plastic Surgery

As if my genetically doomed feet weren't already far enough behind in the competition for perfect body parts, now it seems that women are getting cosmetic surgery on their little piggies to make them even cuter in their Jimmy Choo's.

I haven't even saved up enough for my first face lift, and now I've got to worry that my seriously ugly feet are going to keep me off the celebrity A-List. Cosmetic surgery is so common that now I get asked every year when I go for my mammogram if I've had implants, a question I find about as rational as the TSA's profiling of 75-year-old grandmothers for enhanced patdowns.

"What? Do you think I would pay to have little south-pointing boobs like this installed?" I want to scream. No, these are standard issue, not the premium edition.

I inherited some good features from my parents -- their full heads of hair, tall height and long piano-player fingers. But I hit the genetic jack pot on some of their most undesirable traits: hammy thighs, ridiculously fair skin and Benge Feet.

Obviously my mother wasn't a Benge until she married my Dad (Hello. We're from North Carolina -- not West Virginia.), but Benge Feet became the short-hand for the foot lineage of my parents.

My parents would have been neck-and-neck in an ugly feet competition. We're talking not only ugly, but huge and dysfunctional. My brother and I -- and now our progeny -- are the bearers of barking dogs that look like they were begotten by Big Foot crossed with Disco Duck. When attending the birth of my granddaughter, among the first things noted was her big head (from her paternal grandfather's family) and her Benge Feet.

Make no mistake, Benge Feet are a curse. You can't find shoes to fit them. I wear an 11AA with an AAAA heel. Don't bother looking on Zappo's or normal brick-and-mortar stores, you won't find them.  So I have to buy shoes for length and put all manner of inserts and debris in them to keep them from falling off. My mom's were worse -- size 12-1/2 AA/AAAA. Fahgettaboutit.

Throw in the hammer toes, bunions, ankle tumors, Morton's neuromas, permanent surgical toenail removal due to chronic in-grown toenails, toenail fungus, losing toenails from running and completely flat feet, and you got yourself some ugly Benge Feet that should always be covered in plain brown wrappers. I've been told that my feet are too ugly for sandals, but I believe in baring my soles, warts and all.

So now these perky little girls with their normal feet who want to wear 12-inch stilettos are having their toes shortened, titanian rods inserted, then fat liposuctioned from their hips or thighs and injected into the balls of their feet so they can pretend to be Carrie Bradshaw?

Have they TOEtally lost their minds? Why don't we just go back to binding feet so they'll be so small that women can't walk -- except ten paces behind our masters -- I mean, husbands? If men were demanding that women do this, we'd call it torture. Instead, women are demanding the torture and calling it fashion.

No, I'd rather have my big, ugly Benge Feet than risk not having a leg to stand on. Besides -- I'm saving my thigh fat for a boob job.

 

 

 

Why Women Need 18 Pairs of Black Shoes

As I was vacuuming the bedroom around a line-up of four pair of basic black pumps, it occurred to me for the first time to count all my black shoes ... including those in two other closets. Not sure I really wanted to know, I bravely soldiered on.

There are 18. This doesn't include the significant number of un-black shoes, but we won't go there.

Two pair of boots (one mid-calf sporty suede version with fur, one tall leather with three-inch heels).

Four pair of leather pumps of varying height heels and styles.

Two pair of dressy heels, one with a double gold strip around the heels, the other patent leather sling-backs.

Two pair of canvas shoes, one with little pink and teal checks.

Two pair of strappy sandals for summer.

A pair of Espidrilles.

A pair of soft, velvet ballet slippers with Chrismas poinsettias embroidered on the top. Worn every year at least once.

Two pair of slides, one with wedge heels, and the other flats -- cute-as-a-button with black-and-white checks and rounded toes.

One pair of leather clogs with fur inside (LOVE these with socks).

And one pair of podiatry boots from foot surgery 18 months ago. (What do people do with these afterwards?)

This, after having just recently purged my shoes, throwing out those with scuffs, run-down heels and those I was sure I would never wear again because they hurt too much and I never should have bought them in the first place.

My first reaction was guilt. I have 18 pair of black shoes, and many people over the world have none. Black or otherwise. Then I realized it was the voice of my mother telling me to eat everything on my plate because there were starving children in Africa.

That's how I became a fat kid.

And that didn't help a single starving person. So now I send money to Africa and try not to clean my plate.

My second reaction was, OMG, Bob is going to find out. He's going to fuss because I've spent money on 18 pair of black shoes instead of putting it in my IRA where good, solid people put their money, and why did ANYONE need 18 pair of black shoes?

Well, too late to worry about that now. It'll be just my luck that he'll decide to read my blog for once and the (black) cat will be out of the bag.

Then it hit me. Women need a wardrobe of black shoes. I have a relationship with each of  my pair of black shoes.

The pumps make me feel business-like and in charge. Ready to take on the world. Bring home the bacon and fry it up in the pan.

The boots with heels make me feel a little naughty, like I might have a whip hidden around here somewhere, and you don't want to mess with me, you bad boy!

The boots and clogs with fur make me feel cozy and protected ... well cared for.

The dressy slingbacks make me feel like kicking up my heels and dancing. The sandals, Espidrilles and canvas shoes make me feel breezy and casual. Ready to have lunch with a friend or walk on the beach.

The podiatry boots remind me that I'm going to have to get something done about my growing bunions, and I'll probably need the stupid ugly things again at some point.

I look at every pair and fall in love with them again, just as I can recall falling in love (or at least "in like") with various men in my distant past. There was the one I loved because he made me feel special and sexy, the practical one who could fix my car, the buddy who was great to hang out with on Saturday afternoons.

And then it hit me.

Women need 18 pair of black shoes the way men need lots of sex! Variety ... immediate availability ... and never an occassion that isn't made better by having just the right kind.

The nice thing about the shoes, though, is that you don't need a shower afterwards.

Next week I think I'll be brave again and count my purses. Wonder what Freud would make of them.

 Top photo: ellasdad

Right photo: robad0b's photostream

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fashion doesn’t catch my husband with his pants down

One day last week –- my husband Bob’s first full week of retirement –- he came downstairs for breakfast wearing boxer shorts over his pajamas.

“Nice look,” I said, peering up from my computer.

“It keeps my pants from falling off,” he said, heading for the front door.

“Did you get the paper yet?”

“No. But if I had known you were dressing for the occasion, I would have thrown it out in the yard.”

He cracked the door and snatched the paper from the porch.

“Very funny.”

“The yard man comes today,” I reminded him. “I hope you have that on when he comes to the door for his check.”

He mumbled and shuffled off to the kitchen for coffee.

Bob could easily make the Worst Dressed List with Mikey Rourke and Madonna. There is the thing about not being famous, but still.

Once when we were dating in the early ‘80s, he showed up at a party wearing a slinky, polyester shirt with a near life-size fox hunt scene on it. It must have been in style in the early ‘70s. If ever. I was mortified. He later said he wore it as a joke, but I was never convinced.

After we got married, I discovered a whole closet full of slick shirts with long collars and weird prints, plaid sports coats, funky ties and bell-bottom jeans, all bought by his first wife. And they had been divorced for seven years before we married.

If Bob hadn’t  married me –- or somebody –- he would still be wearing them. Or going naked.

“These go,” I told him, prying the shirts from his hands.

“But look. They still have all the buttons  … no holes. They’re perfectly fine.”

I convinced him to put them in our yard sale, where we sold them to another clueless single guy who thought they were a bargain.

“You’re selling all these great shirts for just $2 each?” he said, dumbfounded. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. Neither could I.

Over the years I’ve bought virtually everything in Bob’s closet and struggled to get him to toss outdated clothes. Even holey underwear and stained t-shirts produce a tug- of-war. I have to sneak them into the rag bag or he’ll wear them as long as they’re hanging together by a thread.

Now that he’s into wearing his underwear on the outside, I suppose I need to go shopping to get him some snazzy ones. You never know when he and Madonna might want to go on tour together.