An old boyfriend told me, after an unceremonious dumping, that I may have been something to look at in the small rural town from which I came, and that I was still noticeable in the larger town where I was at that time – but in New York I would be nothing.
At the time, I took this as a reasonable response to his finding out I had been dating his friend. However, after 12 years and two children, his words have begun to ring in my ears. I am not saying that my return to my small hometown would cause the locals to flinch in disgust, but there is certainly the fear that if I ran into the aforementioned boyfriend, he would smugly smile at his prediction all those years ago.
With this in mind, I decided to embark on restoring my former bodily glory. The most obvious place to start was the 40-plus pounds gained during my second pregnancy. In fairness, and in the interests of journalistic integrity, they were not technically my extra pounds, but rather they belonged to a couple of fellows called Ben and Jerry. Ben and Jerry were refusing to take them back on a technicality – namely that it was my own gluttony that got me here, and for this reason Ben and Jerry thought it justifiable to spend the rest of their days living on my bottom, with day outings to my thighs.
Radical action was required, so I did the unthinkable and joined a gym. A trainer agreed that I had the tightest, most underused hamstrings she had ever seen in her career. I was required to visit the gym three times a week and commit to a brutal regime that could bring the Navy SEALS to their knees. But, like an obedient dog I have obliged this regime.
Next on my body to-do list was the web of wild veins winding around my legs. I had promised my body that I would rid it of these after giving birth. It would have felt like a betrayal not to carry out the promise. I booked an appointment with the dermatologist for their removal with an absolute resolution to do away with them. On seeing me with my baby, the doctor suggested rescheduling, but the look of desperation on my face and the wildness in my eyes made him resolve to do his best.
The procedure was explained as simply injecting saline into the offending veins, which started right along with the baby waking up. The nurse assistant duly passed the baby over to me, clearly taking the meaning of “assisting” to mean the doctor, not me.
During the next 45 minutes, the baby bounced up and down on my thighs while very sharp needles were attempting to eradicate the signs that I had given birth to him. Maybe this is why he felt justified to knock the needle out of the doctor’s hand so that it landed in my upper thigh, standing to attention.
But mission completed, the veins were gone, although temporarily replaced with some bruising and scabs that I was reassuringly told would disappear. But the doctor informed me, as I hobbled out of his office with a very angry baby under my arm, that this didn’t mean the veins wouldn’t return. I loftily waved him off and filtered the information into my brain, filing it under the section known as “your veins are gone and will never return.”
After several months, it was time to evaluate the success or failure of my mission. I have, indeed, lost some weight and the veins are no longer striking in their appearance. But parts of me continue to jiggle and my legs still have an appearance of a roadmap, albeit a faded one that you find under your passenger seat.
My original goal of having people gossip about my dramatic weight loss has been replaced by relief that they are not gossiping about my chubbiness. As for the legs, well, it’s nearly fall and, therefore, trouser season. So, I’ll put my legs away for now and decide whether to do battle with them again in the spring. – Joanne Vlahos