Life Face First: Negotiating One Calamity at a Time
I flung my favorite little black dress out of my closet and screamed a scream so wretched, so full of despair that not even Edvard Munch could grasp the depth of my sorrow.
A treasured blue top and stretchy black pants went next. They sailed through the air and landed with a satisfying thud on my pillow. My cat Seti scrambled off the bed and fled the room.
“Where is it?” I shouted.
“Are you ok?” My husband Brian asked rhetorically. It was obvious I was not ok.
“I’ve lost it!”
“No, not mentally,” I snapped, and I muttered, “though, that will probably be the next thing to go.”
“What have you lost?” He ducked as a white cardigan flew past his ear.
“My metabolism,” I screamed. “All these clothes used to fit. What happened?”
“Um,” he stammered.
He knew I wanted an answer, but he couldn’t think of one that wouldn’t provoke my anger. He did not want me to redirect my wrath away from my clothing and onto him.
“Remember my old metabolism? The one where I could eat an entire pizza and lose a pound! Where did that go?” I could hear the hysteria in my voice.
Brian wisely said nothing.
“Is it under here?” I pointed at my rear end. “Or maybe it’s here?” This was directed at my thighs.
“And what is this?” I gestured toward the soft bit of flesh between rear end and thigh that was in danger of evolving from a lump to a roll.
“Am I growing a second rear end? Why? The one I have is big enough! I don’t need two!”
Brian backed slowly toward the bedroom door. I snatched a pink sundress off a hanger.
“See this?” I strode toward him and waved the dress in front of his glasses.
“This is a large! LARGE! I wear medium! At least I did when I had my old metabolism. I used to be 5’8” and 135 pounds!” (I won’t tell you what I weigh now.) “Where did it all go wrong?”
Brian risked a response. “When you entered your thirties?”
I ignored that too. I was too distraught over my expanding waistline to fret about my age.
“I work out. I skipped cake at our niece’s birthday party. I ate salad for dinner! And for what? What did I gain from that suffering?”
“Um,” he started tentatively, “a well balanced diet?”
“I’ll tell you what I gained. I GAINED two pounds!”
“Maybe you should exercise more?” He said uncertainly.
He later claimed that the scream that emerged from me shattered a lens in his glasses.
When a woman’s screaming at her wardrobe, it’s best not to get involved.
Nora Blithe is the author of the syndicated humor column “Life Face First.” Read her blog online at doorinface.com or contact her at email@example.com.