I’ve been noticing what I think qualifies as an obsession in my life. An obsessive obsession.
First though, I’m happy to report that I’m not obsessing about men. Or politics. Not sure how to credit those developments, but I can tell you, it’s a relief. I feel (at least today) that I’ve turned a corner on those subjects that have previously occupied too much brain space.
I’m noticing a new trend. I’ve replaced men and politics with an obsession about my torso.
Just over a year ago my clothes fit. Some of my pants were loose. I did not have a muffin top. I felt good. But by the time March 2010 ended, I was beside myself with disgust over my new shape: a stomach that was bigger than my boobs and a three-inch roll above my pants waist. This is life changing for someone who never spent much time thinking about her body shape (except for that summer of depression in college when I porked out). I’m tall, smaller boned and when ten extra pounds would appear, I knew they would disappear in a week or two if I cut down on treats and walked around the lake an extra day each week.
This past year has proven this is no longer the case. I am menopausal, complete with the no-estrogen zone that is reputed to show up in the midsection when periods cease. How can this be? I started looking at other women’s no-estrogen zone, and sure enough, there’s that thickness between breast and pelvis. I began guessing other women’s ages based on their torso size. Even Today Show host Meredith Viera (spotted on a camera shot from the side) has “the zone!” I was scrutinizing other TV anchorwomen who sit behind a desk. Ever notice how trim a woman can look while she’s standing, and how the midsection collapses when she takes a seat? Do anchorwomen obsess over the height of their chairs? Does her stage manager understand the importance of proper chair height? I should never sit down again. I need a tummy shaper—or a straight jacket.
Finally, driven to distraction, I thought I would channel my lost-cause obsession more productively. After many years of “free” exercise walking three miles around my neighborhood lake, I am now paying for a gym membership AND a yoga class. My goal is to prove that the no-estrogen zone can dissolve, given proper care and less feeding. Is it possible to succeed?
Okay. I’ve revealed my obsession. Pathetic. Sometimes, when I’m in an Elliptical machine reverie, I wonder what it would be like to obsess over something that really matters. Like overcrowded classrooms, like people who see no place for themselves in the workforce, like U.S. citizens who are hungry or who can’t read. What if I directed the fervor with which I attempt to whittle down my torso into something that really mattered?
My soundtrack today: Christine Lavin – “Butter” (to listen)