I had a vision of my future last week.
Lee and I were standing in the TSA line, when I caught a glimpse of a woman in an adorable just-above-the-knee Lily Pulitzer skirt (I don’t much care for Lily Pulitzer’s styles, but I adore the colors) and polo-collar shirt. It was more tailored than I generally wear, but it stood out in the hot-pink way that I tend to favor. We were even both holding Kindles with the exact same bright fuchsia cover.
She was older than me, by a good bit. But she had a perky blonde haircut and unabashed bare legs; sunglasses perched on top of her head. I felt like I’d fallen down the rabbit-hole, and was looking at myself, twenty years from now–in my grandmother’s body.
She had long, thin legs and arms. She stood up tall and straight. And she had a belly so round it looked five months pregnant.
This is my genetic destiny. My grandmother had the scrawniest little stick legs you’ve ever seen (actually, Lee has little chicken legs too, but that’s not my problem), topped off with a nicely rounded belly. I never once saw her in a pair of pants; she wore dresses exclusively. Waistbands were too “binding.”
Yeah. Me too. I’m all about the drawstring waist. I haven’t had a baby in thirteen years, but I can still rest a book on my stomach. Keeping off excess weight helps, but doesn’t eliminate the pooch entirely. Nor do crunches. And that whole middle-age “thickening” around the middle? I am definitely thickening.
Ah, well. This is the body I was born with. It can run and dance and curl up in a ball, and the legs look great in a skirt, so I can’t complain. In the airport that day, I nudged Lee. “See her? That’s what I’m going to look like in a few years.” He looked up from his phone. “That’s a lot of pink.”
I grinned, and hoisted my pink-polka-dotted briefcase onto one shoulder, and my pink-flowered purse onto the other as the line shuffled forward.