The Bearded Iris

A Recalcitrant Wife and Mother Tells All

Tag: menstruation

What I Wore Wednesday: Does this Boy Scout make me look fat?

pleated poppyWell, damn. This whole What I Wore Wednesday business is much harder than I thought it would be.

For starters, I can’t figure out how to take a decent full body picture of myself.

I wonder how this chick does it? She always looks so dang cute!

Secondly, my kids are shitty photographers. 

I hate asking my husband to take pictures of me because I don’t like to expose him to my self-deprecating freak outs more often than absolutely necessary.

And above all, seeing these pictures and feeling so vulnerable has been really difficult. If it’s true that “the camera don’t lie,” I’ll pass on the brutal honesty, thanks anyway.

{Big sigh.}

Of course, timing is everything.

Ever have one of those days when nothing you put on feels right? I’ve been having about a week of those.

On a related note, are you familiar with the book The Red Tent by Anita Diamant? Great book. Love that book. But I totally get why menstruating women were temporarily banished from the tribe back in ancient times. If my female ancestors were anything like me, it was a safety precaution for the rest of the tribe.

Anyhooooo.

Aunt Flo and I were feeling extra moody and uncomfortable on Monday. Even my “fat jeans” were too tight. After about five outfit changes, this is what I finally settled on wearing for the day:

"Does this Boy Scout make me look fat?"

Comfy, yes, and a step up from sweatpants, but still, not very flattering. The whole point of me wanting to participate in WIWW was to become less of a schlub.

Let me tell you something about that top. I bought it at Target last spring, but I’ve only worn it a couple of times. Every time I put it on, I feel frumpy. It’s too big and it’s totally see-through, so I have to layer it. Half the times I try to wear it, I take if right off and it stays on “the pile” until I get motivated to put my clothes away.

Early Monday morning, after trying it on yet again to see if it would hide my bloated muffintop, I gave up on it for good and finally tossed it in my Goodwill bag. I really struggled with that decision since it is the only new top I’ve bought all year. I’m not much of a clothes shopper.

Five minutes later, wracked with guilt and frustration, I retrieved it from that bag and tried it on again, this time to mask a clingy long sleeved t-shirt that was making me look like I had a low-hanging third boob. Success! It hid my spare tire. Moving on.

Right after dinner we went outside to snap this pic and when I saw it I almost puked. “Is that what I looked like all day? Holy CRAP you guys, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I think you look pretty, Mom,” Nature Boy sweetly tried to comfort me.

I burst into tears. 

Feeling bad, I put the kids to bed and assembled the troops:

That’s my new Hillblingy Goblet half-full of red wine, a bowl of Cheez-Its, an impromptu S’more I made on top of my gas stove, and the remote control. Misery loves company.

By the way, that Target top is now back in the Goodwill Bag, which I moved to my car to avoid the temptation of trying it on yet again.

The next day (yesterday) was my husband’s birthday. We had lunch plans so I wanted to tart it up a little. I did my hair. I put on makeup. I grabbed the prettiest t-shirt in my closet. But still too bloated for jeans, I threw my frumpy cargo pants back on and tried to cover up all my jiggly bits with a sweater.

As we were walking out the door I asked my husband to snap a quick pic of me for this post.

This is the picture he took:

But what I saw was this:

“Ew! Do I really look like that? OMG! Wait, let me turn sideways so it’s not so full frontal.”

Take two:

"What hump?"

CRAP! Nice posture. Here’s what I see when I look at that picture:

(This is actually me, dressed for a costume party in 2001.)

 

Day-amn. Body Dysmorphic Disorder, anyone? Looks like someone needs a session with Stuart Smalley.

But until I can get in to see him, maybe I’ll just self-impose a new rule: no more WIWW until Aunt Flo is gone and takes my bad attitude with her.

Also, while I’m feeling so crappy, I think I’ll continue to brutally purge my closet before my bloating subsides and I feel less critical about myself and my pathetic wardrobe.

But now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a hankerin’ for more birthday cake and a bag of potato chips.

Until we meet again, I remain, your frumpy friend,

-Iris

68

Is it me, or are the libidos of men and women totally incompatible?  I really think Ellen and Portia are on to something here.  Not the least of which being that their bathroom is probably so easy to clean.  

I remember hearing once that men reach their sexual prime in their late teens but that women don’t reach theirs until like their 40s.  What the fuck kind of intelligent design is that?  It seems slightly misogynistic. Like God said, “Well, I don’t want women to want sex all the time when they should be busy taking care of their families. I know, I’ll just delay their sexual prime so they can propagate first, play later.”  Clearly God was not taking into account the fact that by the time we are done with all that breeding all our fun parts are too stretched out and ugly to feel good about sharing them with anyone else (at least with the lights on).  

I’m only 38, so I keep telling my husband to wait for it….his time is coming.  Of course by then, he’ll be so old that he’ll need to take Viagra and have his doctor on speed-dial in case he gets a perma-bone. But while we are both patiently waiting for my prime to get here, why oh why does he always seem to want sex at the precise moment when it is the last thing on earth I’d rather do.  OK, true, that is like 99% of the time. But come on.  Gimme a break, dude.  When I begged you to get that vasectomy and promised you spontaneous wild sex wherever and whenever you wanted, I had my fingers crossed behind my back.  

Here, I’ll give you an example.  Husband gets home from work the other day all sexed up and raring to go (must be that sexy voice of Terri Gross on NPR).  His timing could not have been worse.  Unbeknownst to him, I had received my monthly visitor earlier that day. You know, Aunt Flo.  Mr. Menstrual.  The Curse. Paul Revere Riding the Cotton Pony.  I’m bloated, crampy, pimply, gassy, and slightly inebriated.  But Mr. Twenty-Five-Years-Past-His-Prime doesn’t seem to notice all the warning signs and nuzzles up to me hoping for a little slap and tickle.  I say, “Sorry hon. Can’t. Got my period today.”  Oh the look.  You would think I had said that I just spent his retirement fund on another batch of Fat Burning Soap from QVC.  To say he was disappointed would be an understatement. All I wanted was my box of wine, a heating pad, and whichever Meredith Baxter Burney movie was playing on Lifetime TV.  I was also hoping he wouldn’t then ask for a 68: “You do me and I’ll owe you one.”  Luckily for me, he got on the Internet instead.  Hallelujah for free porn.  

If he was my gorgeous lesbian life partner instead, we’d be on the same cycle, sharing an institutional-sized box of Tampons from Costco, watching Lifetime together, guilt free.  But then, who would mow the lawn and grill the steaks?  I guess I’ll keep him.  And here’s hoping for that sexual prime to get here sooner than later.

© 2019 The Bearded Iris

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑