So

So, the thing is… I’m ready for a Prom Emergency.

January 22, 2006

Recently, I was asked to do a reading from my book. I could not have been more excited—everything in my life seems to be going extremely well at the moment. Except that I’ve gained some weight and I cannot seem to beat it off of my body.

I was prepared for my metabolism to slow down when I turned forty but I didn’t realize that it would just roll over and play DEAD. I mean, I exercise fairly regularly, I eat fairly healthily (the whole holiday fudge-cookie-wine-cheese odyssey aside.) But I had this very ugly realization recently—namely, that none of my clothes fit comfortably (which I define as I being able to wear them AND breathe at the same time.) I’ve gained a solid ten pounds since the school year started! Ack!!! After I finished punishing myself by eating a five pound bag of jelly beans from Sam’s, I decided that it was time to take myself in hand. In BOTH hands. (Ick.)

My long-time readers will appreciate the gravity of the situation when I tell you that I was so desperate to lose some weight that the first thing I did was GIVE UP WINE. I really love the taste of wine and I love to have a glass while I’m cooking dinner as my official transition from day to evening. Because there’s no real way to notice a difference between day and evening in my life unless you count the fact that I go from yelling about doors left open and dirt tracked in to yelling about bath time and dinner. Plus, wine goes great with dinner and um, ice cream.

But these are desperate times so I gave it up on New Year’s Eve promptly at midnight. (Well, at 11:37 when I was too tired to stay up any longer.) Except that I didn’t lose any weight. Not a single pound.

Okay, clearly it wasn’t SOLELY the wine that caused me to blow up like one of those inflatable holiday snowmen. (Pop the cork, Honey, while I reason this out.) (Just kidding.) (Sigh.)

So, I figured I had to look at the exercise I was getting. I haven’t exactly been inspired on the exercise front. My husband exercises because he really, really likes it. I exercise because I really, really like my husband. There’s a subtle difference there but I admit that I haven’t been “feeling the burn” lately. In fact, I’ve been mostly feeling the “lukewarm.” Feeling the “tepid.” I don’t know… I’m just kind of tired of exercising. I guess I need to sign up for a class and start weight training and zzzzzzzzz. See?

But I have included moderate exercise into my routine. Despite my ancient ankle which keeps uttering “ka-DOOH-kah” and really hurting, I’m walking three miles about three or four times a week. I’m about to sign up for a swimming clinic because my ankle hurts and no one can hear me swearing underwater. (Of course, drowning isn’t very aerobic but at least I wouldn’t have to lose weight anymore. Win-win.)

I guess it was time to face up to it. There it stood right in front of me like some neon sign with letters 65 feet tall: GO ON A DIET, BARB. So, I joined Weight Watchers online. I joined it ten days ago but lacked the motivation to actually START the program.

Until now.

No, seriously! I've discovered a secret for motivation.

A few years ago, I read this book called, “The Artist’s Way” by Julia Cameron. It’s a wonderful book to help unleash your inner artist, whether your art is visual or verbal or…CULINARY. We all have an inner artist of some kind. It’s a great book. In it, the author suggests that you take your inner artist on something called “Artist’s Dates.” That’s where you go and you do something totally outside of the spectrum of things you normally do. I have done a few of these. Once I went to the mall and went shopping for fine china. I purposefully left my thriftiness, my mother’s voice, my practicality, my image of what I thought my style was, etc. in the car. I shopped based entirely on what I liked. I picked out this beautiful, girly pattern for china and I enjoyed every minute of picking it out. And then I left the store. (I’m not really a fine china kind of person.)

I thought about that a few days ago. See, I had this reading to give and nothing to wear. I was feeling so terrible about myself that I went to the mall to do some shopping.

(Let me repeat that so you too can see the inherent fallacy in that sentence: I was feeling really BAD so I went to the MALL.)

I roved around for a year or so and then tried on six pairs of pants and felt even worse so I went upstairs and tried on three million dresses and hated them all (what is with the whole spaghetti straps thing? It’s JANUARY.)

So, then I started trying on Prom dresses. I know, I know—it’s a hard visual. I can’t explain what came over me. I’m 40 years old and I don’t even WANT to go to the Prom. But why should the teenagers have all the fun? I tried on strapless, silver-spangled slinky numbers and I tried on this dress that looked like the dress-up version of Little Bo Peep’s outfit. I tried on a dress that would have made a Vegas Showgirl proud (only she wouldn’t have worn it in my size) and I tried on an austere little number with a slit all the way up the side. Then I tried on some strapless, backless, frontless dress that I couldn’t figure out. I tried the little black dress and I tried the little red dress. It was so…just… plain SILLY that I had a blast.

And, um, well…

I bought one.

It was on this rack of clothes that were marked $9.99 because they were damaged or no one wanted them or whatever. It had a bad zipper but I knew I could fix it. I figured I could just give it to the girls for dress-up. But first, I put it on. And it’s just amazing how if you are dressed like Prom Queen, you sort of start ACTING like one. I had no idea.

Suddenly, I had better posture and better diction. There was a positive FLOURISH to my work with the toilet wand. And OBVIOUSLY, when you are DRESSED like a Prom Queen, you have to EAT like a Prom Queen. Salads, I think, which you eat with a knife and fork, cutting each individual piece with dainty precision on some fine porcelain plate. (I need some china...) Anyway, it’s unthinkable to eat chocolate chips out of the bag when you’re dressed in a prom dress. The Prom Committee might find out and take away your Prom Queen License, or whatever it is you get.

So, that’s my new plan: The PQ Diet. I’ve been wearing my prom dress and embracing my inner Queen. If you decide to try this at home, it’s important to keep a bathrobe handy so that if someone comes to the door, you can whip the gown off and act like you, a serious and mature woman, were just getting ready to go out to one of your worthy volunteer jobs. Because it would be really bad for your reputation if people knew that when no one is looking, you get completely silly. We can’t have that.

And then just think about it, if you reach some sort of weight plateau, you can always go shopping for the matching tiara.

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Barb Cooper is the mother of Ana (7.75) and Jane (5). She lives in Austin, Texas and her children hope she loses the weight really fast so they can have that dress.

Barb pretending to be semi-normal even if she IS wearing a Prom Dress.

Okay, so I know what I said about never appearing in your Prom Dress in public but the exception to that rule would be if someone double-dog-dares you to wear it. It might just be a Texas thing, but if someone double-dog dares you to wear your prom dress in public, you better dust off your high heels and put that thing on. It's a matter of honor. So, my friend JJ (turquoise sweater) double-dog-dared me and then I was silly enough to let a picture be taken. To avoid the threat of blackmail later, I'm posting it here. (I have no pride but even less blackmail money.)