Thursday, March 24, 2016

Two Years Gone

It’s coming up to two years. Perhaps you too have changed your life radically once before, a move-a separation-either uncontrolled or controlled, and can relate to the loss of orientation. The following happens to me on a regular basis (it's not a riddle or a math quiz): Whenever I pass through a certain train station, I question which platform I need, which way is home? I still feel that home is out there waiting, waiting elsewhere than where my cat listens for my key to open the door. Continually searching at the bustling train station, after slight deliberation, I slowly turn my hesitant feet away from the old platform and, for reassurance, softly repeat the number aloud of the new platform.

Home wasn’t so much a location as a lifestyle.  Home is a situation that you grasp with both hands, and place within your heart.  I don’t know if I will ever feel that I have such a home again.  A lot of people do without homes on a permanent basis; I suppose at the end of the day it’s not such a big deal. I am not complaining about my lifestyle, hectic and entertaining, however I do miss the lengths of downtime I used to encounter on a more regular basis in my former life, my marriage.

Having made the step outside the safe box, I’ve kept changing. Five months have passed since the surgery.  I googled “clothes after breast reduction” and came up with some amazingly uninformative links, or links that only focused on the blanket outer issues. What is it really like? I was wondering if anyone felt the way I did. Ecstatically glad that I had the operation, and exploring this new me.  I had, and quite rightly before the surgery, understood that imagining the types of clothes that I would be able to wear was a bit of a dangerous occupation. Mostly I allowed myself to obsess over photos ladies wearing of halter-top necklines. Other than that I was happy to finally dump the idea of wrap around dresses and blouses. When you have a figure a la Dolly Parton you wear clothes like Dolly Parton. Not because you love them, but because otherwise you look like you are expecting triplets, all the time for years on end, endlessly pregnant.

Two months into It’s Finally Me At Last I felt it was safe to at least buy some new yoga trousers. I had seen a shop offering soft folding jersey pajama bottoms with gathered legs that would also masquerade as an attractive and trendy type of yoga trouser. It was December and the sales were on.  Top timing I thought and, for the form of the matter, decided to try them on.  It took me five minutes to get over the sight of myself in the mirror.  Obviously I was not going to buy them, not even on sale, not even as pajamas. Was it the style?  I asked myself looking aghast at the proportions of me in the looking glass.  Was it the pattern?  A small but fun purple paisley pattern that did not particularly scream I’m pajamas.  The problem was both these notions combined together and placed on my body.

March: It’s becoming warmer.  Abandoning the turtlenecks I now adore, I wore an old outfit last week to the office, namely a fitted jacket and a camisole. I felt uncomfortable in the v-neck idea. Before it wasn’t a problem, that was the only way I didn’t appear to be thirty pounds heavier than I actually weighed and gave me some sort of line that didn’t just say bulk-o-rama.  I decided to generally avoid v-necks in future.

Finally fully back to my exercise routines; my weight has shifted even more during the course of these last three months.  The fat rolls around my back irritate me, because I can feel them rubbing against each other.  Before, I was hunched over and didn’t particularly notice.

Twelve, I thought coming out of the operation, my chest is that of when I was twelve. And I am not twelve. In fact I realize that it was the moving beyond twelve, that development, that made me not twelve. Now I was back at the starting gate, as when I was twelve, but I will not stay there either.

Presently it’s the limbo that I am somehow neither here nor there, that causes me to catch my breath, so poignantly at times. I’ve understood that my body form will change; my rib cage has already come up and expanded, my arms and shoulders look different, the idea of a waist (not tailored because of the heavy awning) but a more athletic torso is most likely what I will end up with when a quantity of my excess weight comes off of me in what I am guessing is a few months time, maybe sooner than later or maybe later than I would imagine.  Who knows? It’s really hard to grasp the notion that the way I can now use my body will change the overall appearance and presentation.

I don’t want to wear the girly clothes anymore, those shoes with bows across the toes.  In fact I don’t like them at all; they were part of the package that I made myself before, to assemble some sort of image that would make my body type more acceptable to the general public, tone it down. I want to wear a French blue and white striped sailor tee-shirt with a high neckline across the shoulder bones, and a pair of blue jeans and look boyish in ballerina flats.  I am not quite sure this will happen. I might look terrible in this outfit, like the yoga trouser experience. My brain still has a hard time fathoming these possibilities.  In the meantime, I keep prompting myself to move forward by identifying small items aloud from time to time to make sure I am really here with my feet on the right platform, surviving the shifting layers of reorientation. I figure this might take another year or two...or more.

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