Crossing over to polyester

Last year around this time I was headed to Nashville for my big birthday bash. My mother and sisters in law hosted a party for me because they didn't know if I'd be around another year. But here I am, plump and feisty.

Back then, I fit into all my pants, even ones I had stuffed in the bowels of my closet in hopes of someday getting into again (that thing women do), never thinking chemo would be the diet that worked best for me. This year, those pants and a lot more have been moved to the basement, stuffed into black plastic bags on their way to AmVets or the Salvation Army. I am 52, the age of change. THE change. The one that slows your metabolism to a trickle. The one that means apples and green beans go straight to your hips (and your new pooching belly).

I have crossed over to the world of polyester pants. Stretchy material. Elastic waistbands. I now wear sweat pants out in public because they hang loosely around my thighs. Sometimes they even make me feel skinny. Long ago, I quit tucking my shirts into my pants. I had to reassess everything I wore on the top half of my body. I had to give away the bulky, tuckable shirts and buy the fitted untuckable shirts.

Now, I've moved down to the lower part of my body. I'm tossing out the pants that no longer button; the ones that hug my butt and give me a definable crack. I've moved up a size. My older sister, Jennifer, offered me a brilliant solution. If you don't want to be reminded that you've gone up a size, just cut out the tags.

Problem solved.