Life's Little Ironies

As I continue through the healing process, unable to do much more than dent the sofa cushion, I've had time to ponder many things.  Today, it was the ironies of my current situation.

A few months ago I packed up all  my "thin clothes" along with my expectations that I would ever lose any weight.  Since my accident I've lost 10 pounds. But now I can't climb to the upper closet shelves to retrieve the boxes of previously-outgrown clothing (yeah, I was still clinging to the hope that someday I'd wear them again).  Besides, except for medical appointments I haven't been outside the house in six weeks.  Most days I don't even bother getting dressed.

Before I broke my ankle,  I couldn't find enough hours in the day to work on my scrapbooks or try any of the other creative things I wanted to do.  Now  I can't clean house (let's pretend I ever did), cook dinner, do laundry, or any of the other chores that took up all my time.  Plenty of free time now, but no way can I navigate my craftroom on crutches or even sit upright long enough to create anything other than a swollen leg.

The weather's warm and the pool is open. Most summer days I won't allow myself the luxury of lounging poolside when there are so many other things that need to be done. Now that I can't do anything but lounge around, the doctor has banned me from the pool and ordered me to wear my fancy knee-high (sun-blocking) boot all day. 

My husband has expressed his willingness to serve as my personal slave, to bring me anything I need or to do anything I ask. But now he's so busy taking care of the mundane tasks I usually do (not to mention his real job) that he has very little time to rest at the end of the day.  I might be selfish, but even I can't ask him to give that up just so I can feel like Queen for a Day.

And as mentioned above, I've inexplicably lost 10 pounds.  Prior to my tumble down the stairs, I worked out like a mad woman several times a week in a desperate attempt to lose the weight that was standing between me and total happiness.  It was somewhat of an obsession. It took up what little time was left after all the previously mentioned chores.  And as much as I was clinging to the hope of being thin again, those fat cells were clinging to my body with just as much determination.  Then within a few weeks of my injury I realized I was losing weight.  Go figure.  I'm unable to do anything more strenuous than hobble to the bathroom a few times a day, and I've accomplished what months and months of exercise couldn't do. 

Okay, it's not all bad.

Deterioration

After I broke my ankle, I never stopped to think of all the ways my life would be impacted.  Good news--I've lost about ten pounds.  (How, you ask?  Who the heck knows.  But some things are gifts and we shouldn't question.)  But on the downside, everything is falling apart.  My life, my house, my body.

I was old and withered already.  Well, I was slightly plump, so the withering wasn't quite so noticeable.  Ten pounds lighter and everything sags.  I thought losing weight would erase the jowls I was sporting below my face.  Nope.  Without the fatty underlayer, they just hang a little lower.  Likewise, my boobs.

Yesterday I decided my surgical incisions were healed enough that I could safely take a bath without encasing my leg in a garbage bag.  (Yeah, it was just as pretty a sight as you are imagining.)  With a clear view of both my legs in a side-by-side comparison, I realized what just one month of inactivity can do to muscles. 

For the past few years, in a desperate, futile attempt to regain my youthful, (almost) thin body, I've been working out regularly.  I dropped a few pounds (eventually) and although I was still mostly a short, wide ball of flab, I was rocking some well-toned calves.  But now my left leg looks as if it is attached to the body of someone who has been bedridden for twenty years.  And since my right leg has been doing all the work, it has become even more muscular.  Now I know how those women who test a new product on only one side of their faces must feel.

And no, as a kindness to anyone who might read this, I will not post a photo.

Date Night

It finally happened.  I was getting dressed to go out (okay, just to run errands and have an early dinner with my husband and granddaughter, but "going out" sounds better).  I had spackled my face as best I could, fluffed up my increasingly thin hair in an effort to hide my scalp, and was attempting to find a flattering outfit (does one even exist?)  I finally decided on the blackest, most slimming get-up I could find (yeah, the same one I wear every Saturday for "date night"), took a deep breath, then looked in the mirror.  It just seemed so drab.  Well, maybe a necklace would give it a little style, so I tried that.  And then for the first time in my life, my waistline wasn't the biggest problem.  I had to pick a new battle.  I could no longer bear to draw any attention to my droopy jowls, so the necklace was out.  It seemed like the lesser of two evils to slap a belt across my pot-bellied love handles and call it a day.

All Dressed Up for a Night on the Town: