MountainMornings

Yesterday, I let W the Frenchie out on the porch, and he went straight for the new cactus dish I had planted. I caught him just in time, his tiny nose was saved from all those dreaded cactus spines. While I was telling the Bride this story, she let it slip that W was down to one meal a day since his puppy fat rolls were growing more fat rolls. My poor Grand Dog must be starving!

Then low and behold, I read a Chasten Buttigieg Tweet lamenting the 20 pounds he gained during Covid. But, he went out and bought new pants after a friend told him, “… maybe just dress the body you have and stop worrying about it.” He finished with being grateful for his friends and the “bigger pants.”

First of all, I didn’t think that guys would mind a little tire around the middle. I thought it was mostly a women’s issue – body dysmorphia and diet culture (aka the business of betting on your willpower) has been marketed to women for quite some time. Where once we were implored to become “bikini ready,” now the industry urges us to lose weight for health reasons. My Mother’s diet culture has morphed from grapefruits into jargon about “wellness.”

I felt like confessing to Chasten (and his 588.8K followers) that I too had gained weight during this past year of: losing our family’s matriarch; no gym work-outs; intense election and January 6th anxiety; plus Bob’s delicious-never-ending sourdough bread. Yep, I proudly admit I’ve gained 10 pounds which is a whole dress size, but who’s wearing dresses these days?

Luckily, most of my pants still fit. Granted they are mostly pull-on, yoga style, size Medium, Eileen Fisher. I know cause I actually had to dress up this past week for a graduation party in Ms Berdelle’s secret garden. Talk about getting back to normal, it was delightful to mingle with our vaccinated friends and neighbors, to drink champagne with strawberries, and walk under her roses reaching into the sky.

And honestly, I don’t worry about gaining or losing a little weight. I used to joke that I wasn’t quite Jewish enough because when I worry I stop eating. Well, Grandma Ada would be pleased to know that I’ve finally joined the tribe. This past year required an abundance of comfort food, and I love to cook; so the constellations aligned and voila! I find myself in the South searching for the perfect fried chicken sandwich.

Oh, and the rocks in my pants pockets as I head out the door to Hattie B’s?

I’m not some Victorian damsel in distress heading for the river to drown my sorrows. No, I carry rocks around to hurl at Kevin, who has decided to bring two of his squirrel buddies to raid my dish of delectable bird seed. One good throw never hits him and it does give the doves a few minutes before he returns.

Right now a mourning dove is lifting both wings, sitting across from Kevin, who could care less. She is doing her very best to appear intimidating and large, but squirrels know things. He keeps eating.

Animals have figured out what we humans are still learning, how to eat to survive and thrive. They don’t require scales or marketing ploys. And I don’t require a bikini anymore, I’m more of a tankini type anyway.

Still, sometimes I feel like somebody’s watching me eat.