I believe in some roundabout way, Number 4 meant this as a compliment:
“Mom, you run a lot. You could win those contests.
But you should still lose a little more pounds.”
If she only knew what I looked like just eight years ago.
Eight years ago, I was the single, impeccably-dressed, thin, and hot 4th grade teacher in a fairly wealthy school district in Fairfield County, CT.
Fast forward to 2012, and seven kids later. The description has changed.
I remember (sorry Mom) when I was in college, and I was home at my parents’ house.
I was in my mom’s room, looking for something in her underwear drawer.
I can’t recall why I was in there. I must have come home for the weekend, and I needed a pair of socks or something.
Anyway, what I saw was depressing.
And, at the time, horrifying.
As I sifted through the contents of that top dresser drawer, I began to take a closer look at what was in there.
I picked up a pair of underpants, held them up and really looked at them. The elastic in them no longer served its purpose.
I picked up another pair. The elastic wasn’t even elastic anymore. And it wasn’t even completely attached to this pair.
I moved to the bras. There were dozens of spidery pieces of elastic sprouting out of the underband, and they were swaying in the breeze created by my frightened and shaking hands.
One even had a wire sticking out of it!
I shoved everything back in the drawer and slammed it shut.
I rubbed my cute little Victoria’s Secret matching bra and panty set on top of my clothes. “I will NEVER have underwear that looks like that,” I said, out loud.
Well, here I sit at the computer, many years after that incident, wearing one of my two bras and a pair of maternity underwear.
The bra is black, and the underpants light gray. I ‘m not pregnant, and the underpants were actually white when I bought them.
Seven years ago.
I’ve turned into my mother.
Right. down. to. my. underpants.
Something needs to done about this.
Before Number 4 gets to my underwear drawer.