Take On An Empty Stomach

Fortunately I've never had to pay much attention to my weight, even after giving birth to Sonny and Cher. Well, that is until just recently. Now for those of you wanting to African witch slap me right now, simmer down. I'm not climbing Mount Ego I'm just saying we all fight different battles. And, if it makes you feel any better, I had a mustache at ten, crow's feet in high school and I'll be the only octogenarian with a pimple prescription.

Anyway, at the height of swimsuit season I noticed the scale consistently and incorrectly inflating my weight. So, I replaced the batteries, my jeans, and eventually the scale(twice actually: digital and analog) before reluctantly grasping reality. After ten new pounds in two weeks (that's a lot for a tiny troll) I revisited some of my favorite profanities and broke up with all three scales.

Like any bitter Betty I beefed to my friends who assured me I still looked fine and that it was probably nothing. But, one honest gal (while training for a triathlon) cited a study which found most women over 30 gain a pound a year due to sluggish metabolisms unless they significantly improve their diet and exercise regimens. (Isn't that just spit on your neck fantastic?)

When I unintentionally modeled my broken elastic britches at the doctor, she ran some tests and determined a dead beat thyroid was the likely perpetrator of my new belly goo, fatigue and exceptionally charming disposition.

Do you have any idea how liberating it is to be given a legitimate medical reason for weight gain and rudeness? And, the doctor wisely chose not to cheapen the moment by using the queen mother of all cuss words (diet) or it's ugly step-sister (exercise) in my remedy. Was it Christmas? I was smiling so hard my face cracked even more than normal.

After muttering side effect warnings of explosive diarrhea, arrhythmias and osteoporosis, the pharmacist said, and I quote "IF YOU LOSE MORE THAN TEN POUNDS IN A WEEK, CALL YOUR PHYSICIAN IMMEDIATELY TO ADJUST YOUR DOSE." Yeah, right. While I'm at it I'll return the free box of Botox, decline Matthew McConaughey's proposal and tell Ed McMahon to keep the clearinghouse cash.

I was well past giddy as I skipped to the car and tore open the sack like a strung out junkie. Gearing up to gulp the magic fat melting meds and drop 5 lbs by dinner, one of the warning stickers stopped me cold. "TAKE ON AN EMPTY STOMACH." More specifically "Take one hour prior or two hours after a meal." When exactly is that? According to my watch it's half past snack time. The label may as well have read, "Take when your house is clean, you've shaved your legs, and there's peace in the middle east."

Needless to say it's 4 months later, my thyroid's normal but I'm still squeaking into my jeans by spraying Downey on the seams.

Do I Hear $20?

While scrutinizing a pair of patent leather, peek toe (or is it "peep toe?") Mary Janes at the mall, I narrowly escaped physical assault by four elderly ladies, one wheelchair bound. As I assessed my ability to command the 3 1/2 inch heel, this gaggle of gals clad in polyester pant suits and far east fuchsia lipstick began hollering "Excuse me. Excuuuse me!"

Since I've been subjected to lifelong indoctrination regarding respect for my elders I approached the clan assuming they thought I was a salesperson. A most baffling conversation ensued when one of them bedazzled in rhinestones and reeking of menthol said "I really like your shirt, where did you get it?"

"Here," I casually replied "A couple of years ago."

Mincing no words she boldly inquired "How much was it?"

Curiosity dulled my flight instinct and I stupidly answered "It was $27.50 on clearance in the 2nd floor Junior's dept."

Without batting a false eyelash she shot back "I'll give you ten bucks for it." (Keep in mind Tijuana Tillie had me by 40 years, 80 lbs and at least 4 cup sizes).

Wanting to make the trek back to my car in something other than my drawers, I politely declined, avoided eye contact and started backing slowly away. Sadly this ploy only works on charging bulls, visiting in-laws and amorous elk during rut season.

Just when I thought I'd escaped, another one slurred "The shirt's ugly. It's the necklace I want."

What?! Overlooking the backhanded compliment my eyes darted nervously through the lingerie section for Ashton Kutcher, a hidden camera, and the rest of the "Punk'd" team. But before I could respond she aimed her gnarled arthritic finger just shy of my left eye and exclaimed "I'll give you fifteen dollars, period. That's all I have on me and I have to buy something now!"

At this point I'm thinking either:
a) They've secured the lead in the senior center sponsored scavenger hunt
or
b) The Golden Girls recently returned from a Mexican Riviera cruise and haven't resumed U.S. shopping etiquette.

Just then I noticed the smirking Clinique Cosmetics employee watching the fiasco and immediately kicked into Darwinian survival mode. Shamelessly pointing to the twenty something almost blond, I turned to the pack of bartering blue haired babes and said "I'm sure SHE has something to sell you."

Floral blouse $27.50, turquoise necklace $125. Leaving the mall with my clothes on...priceless.