Today, I’m continuing the saga as we enter The Dinner Hour!! (cue scary music)

The Southampton Hospital Benefit is so huge, so gigantic, that it can only be held in a tent.  Nine hundred people were at this benefit.  And not one of them knew or cared who I was. Typical day in the life.

After the hors d’oevres free cocktail hour, we entered the dinner tent.  Our table, #79, or as I like to call it, The Jewish Table, (why the Jewish table?  I’m guessing that our dinner companions, the Kaplans, the Fienbergs, and the Goldsteins were Jewish. Just a guess.) Anyway the Jewish table was in the back.   But haha on them, because the back was also where the food was, and since we’ve already established that at a party, Jews eat – well, good luck to them getting any rubber chicken!

I could write about the long lines for the buffet dinner.  I could regale you with stories of  how the aggressively white crowd got down to the strains of Brick House, played by a band of 60-something white guys. But the real story of the dinner took place at table #79, where the first person we met was a bleach-blonde, fake breasted, poufy lipped, heavily eyelined and even more heavily jewel encrusted woman of an indeterminate age.

After all that surgery, it was hard to tell.  I’d put her anywhere between 35 and 55. Only her plastic surgeon knows for sure.  She introduced herself:

“Hi. Do you know anyone single?  I’m going through a divorce and I’m getting $50 million dollars in the settlement.  So the guy has to worth at least half that much. Got anybody?”

Well, you had to hand it to her: she wasn’t coy.

BBB (bleach blond bimbo) went on to tell us how she had a driver, an assistant, and two boys who were living with their father.  She grilled the men at the table about their friends.  Were they rich? Could she have their number? Did we know that the diamond earrings she was wearing were three carats each?  At one point, Mr. Kaplan, a charming, funny man in his seventies, looked at me over her flat-ironed head and mouthed the words “Help Me!”

Help him?  Why of course not!  I needed fodder for my blog post!

I spoke to BBB’s date – her mother. “Who’s gonna take her seriously?” she moaned. “She tells everybody everything! Me? I’m not like that. I’m quiet, private. Ever since my husband died.”

And then, quiet, private Mom told me the totally unfunny and truly sad story of how her husband had been killed in a car jacking. Not to be insensitive (did you ever notice that when people start a sentence with “not to be _____” they’re about to be totally and completely _____?”  but what a buzz kill.

Meanwhile, BBB hounded my husband. At nearly 50,  and the youngest man at the table, he must have seemed her best bet for a kill, date. “Gimme your business card!” she yelled at him over a very loud rendition of Kool and the Gangs Celebrate.

“No!” my husband yelled back, and – and I’m not kidding here – physically ran from her.

So she descended upon me: “Your husband won’t give me his business card.  He thinks I want to break up your marriage.  I would never do that!  Never!” Well, that was a relief!  I mean, any man who is interested in me – a size 10 (eight on a good day), ethnic looking, ivy educated, left-wing upper west side Jew – well he’d be bound to go for a girl who looked like she was an “air quote” dancer.

“I know!” she squealed! “let’s be best friends! What’s your name?”

Luckily, I was saved by the Blackberry: “Ma!” she said “It’s my assistant! The driver is here with the Bentley.” then, to my husband “I have a Bentley.”

“You have a Bentley!!” my husband suddenly grew animated. “We have a Bentley!” And then he showed her a picture of our Bentley, that’s him there. The Shelter dog from Arkansas.  BBB was not impressed. She stormed off.  But me and my husband?  Well, we’d had the time of our lives! I guess society ain’t so bad after all.

Southampton, for those without access to movies, TV, newspapers, magazines, or other sentient beings, is one of the towns in the swanky NY resort area known as The Hamptons.

After a lifetime in the Hamptons, I’d heard all about the big parties and the glamorous people.  I just wasn’t one of them. Unless bad hair and stained 20 year old t-shirts are glam, that is.  I never went to the benefit because I was never part of Southampton “society.”  Why? Read on.

1. Have you checked out my last name, people? Rabinowitz-Friedman? Uh – Jew.  Actually, double Jew.  Southampton is not exactly a bastion of diversity. Founded in 1640, the town didn’t get a synagogue until the 1990’s. But at least they welcome my people kindly- with a lawsuit trying to stop the synagogue from existing at all.

2. I own neither a Lily Pulitzer dress, nor a pair of loafers with a cute little crest on them. Also, I have ankles.

3. I’d rather eat than drink at a party.

4. I don’t hang out on the veranda with my boarding school chums Kathy and Preston.  Mostly because I don’t have a veranda and I went to Public School with kids named Amy and David.

So this foray into the bowels heart of SH society, well, it was too much to pass up.  I considered wearing a sheitel – but decided that what with my fabulous new(ish) haircut I wouldn’t want to cover it up with a schmata on my head. (And if you know what I mean by this – you wouldn’t be part of SH society either!)

We arrived at the party and the first thing I see is a woman of a certain age wearing a white fur stole. It was 90 degrees people. I knew I was in for a weird night.

We wandered through the somewhat older crowd hoping for a familiar face. Quickly, I realized that even if  someone’s face had been familiar once, that had been several surgeries ago, so I wouldn’t recognize them anyway. Kinda like on a Soap Opera where the person disappears and comes back unrecognizable because of plastic surgery performed by a world renowned evil doctor in a faraway county .  Oh, and because they hired a new actress.

I haven’t seen so many Beauty Parlor, made-to-last-for-a-week hairdos since the last time I watched Mad Men. The hair spray fumes were suffocating. I fervently wished no one would light a match.

No one did.  Nor did anyone speak to us or even give us the eye contact that might be necessary for us to speak to them.  This was not a warm and welcoming crowd. Also, for people who are supposedly part of society – well, let’s just say there were a lot of women of a certain age dressed like they were certainly a whole lot younger.  Tip to women around the world: when your breast hover somewhere around your navel, it’s not a good idea to go braless in a skimpy dress.

It was a weird mix of truly gorgeous society women, and truly tacky false-eyelash wearing, bad plastic surgery sporting wannabes.   Look!  Over there!  A jewel encrusted emerald green silk strapless shift.  And look!  over there!  a silver lame skin tight gown that wouldn’t be out of place on Snookie from the Jersey Shore.  And I don’t even think you’re allowed to say the words “Jersey Shore” when you’re in the Hamptons.  On pain of having to wear lip liner without lipstick.  Oh the horror.

True to the cliché that Jews like food and gentiles like drink at their parties (see #3, above) cocktail hour passed with nary an hors d’oevres in sight. Then, just before I keeled over from the combination of alcohol, hairspray fumes and the crisp smell of cold hard cashthey herded us, cowlike (bejeweled cows – but still) into dinner, But to hear about that, you’ll have to check in tomorrow for part two: The Dinner.  Wherein a blond bimbo with big lips announces that she’s in the market for a man worth $50 million or more, and my husband baffles party goers by mentioning bungalow colonies in the Catskills.

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Not because of  my saggy knees, or brown spots, or my elbows that look as if they’ve been crumpled up in the back of a drawer for a few decades.  No, I am old because I am horrified by what “young girls” are wearing. (plus, I refer to anyone under thirty as a young girl – I’m old for sure!)

With summer-like weather upon the city, (though this week things seem to have cooled down) everyone is letting everything hang out.  Manhattan is suffering from TMI of the body: and frankly, I don’t want to see it!

I mean, is there some rule that if you are female and possessing of a bustline you must display it so prominently one is tempted to insert a coin, grab your arm, and go for the jackpot?

Did I miss the memo that said your skirt must be so short that when you raise your arm to wave to your friend across the street, you reveal a thong so deeply wedged in it reappears on the other side?

Did someone forget to mention to me that tank tops must be worn below the bra line, so that all you need is a glass of mead and some rotten teeth to accurately approximate a Medieval serving wench?

Did I neglect to read the e-mail about displaying one’s love handles at every opportunity? Or the one about how the low-hanging pants once exclusively associated with plumbers have somehow become a fashion trend?

What ever happened to keepin’ it covered? If you’re twenty-something, well, OK.  I don’t love it, but at least you’re twenty something. It’s the thirty, forty, even fifty-somethings wearing belly shirts that really get me.  Here’s a newsflash:  I don’t care how fit you are:  unless you’re a supermodel, a movie star or a porn star, once you’ve given birth, nobody wants to see your stomach.

Plus, the flesh on display is not always taut – even when it is young.  I suppose I should think it’s great that these girls feel confident enough about their bodies that they don’t care that they’re muffin’-topping it around town.  But I don’t even like seeing the svelte ones so scantily clad the mother in me wants to run across the street and hand them a robe.  Why on earth would I want to see the pudgy ones busting out of their hip-huggers?

When I was a teenager, Preppy was in.  We must have looked ridiculous, a bunch of frizzy haired Jewish girls in multiple polo shirts with the collars turned up, as if we thought the real Wasps might not notice we were poseurs if we piled on the polos with aplomb. Our look was Wasp-wanna-be.

Today, Preppy for men is still in, but for young women, the look, evidently, is now “hooker with good highlights.”  For example, the other day in Zabars I saw a polo-wearing college boy with his short-short wearing, bra displaying, tummy flashing, $400 haircut sporting girlfriend. It looked like a casting call for a new movie: Preppy and the Parentally-supported Porn Star.

I know it’s judgmental.  I know I shouldn’t care what others wear.  But I do care.  I care because I don’t want my daughter thinking that objectifying herself is a good thing.  I don’t want my son getting the idea that women are adornments, or sex objects, or are there for his viewing pleasure.  And in case you think that sounds like I’m abdicating responsibility for raising him right, think about this: pit a mother’s admonitions to respect girls against an actual, buttocks flashing female…and guess who wins.

Look, I’m all for women reveling in their sexuality. But reveling and revealing are two different things. This physiological TMI offends me as a woman.  It sets a bad example for my kids.But mostly, it makes me hope and pray that the fashion cycle keeps turning, and the Preppy look returns to prominence by the time my daughter hits puberty.

Because by then, if she tries to go out of the house looking like a runaway who’s fallen in with a bad pimp…well I’ll be too old to do anything about it.

Of course by the time the show aired I was already married, and by the time it ended I already had two kids, but still, her life was close enough to what my reality had been – the glamorous, better dressed version of my reality – that even with its excesses, the show rang true.

But here we are, on the cusp of a new Sex and the City movie, and I can’t help but wonder….why is it that my life now centers around organizing my synagogue’s High Holy Days, cleaning up after the dog, and packing up the kids for sleepaway camp, while Carrie and the gang still have lives that include gallivanting across the desert in designer duds?

Read the rest of this post on New York City Moms blog by clicking here.

Until today.

Because today,  I went to the new {intimacy} flagship store on 62nd and 3rd and had a fitting by none other than The Bra Whisperer herself, {intimacy} Founder and Chief Bra Fitter, Susan Nethero, (a five-time Oprah guest. FIVE!). And man, was it amazing. Turns out, I was wearing the wrong size.  Evidently, while my boobs may be gigundoid, I need a 32, instead of a 36.I am petite!

Susan Nethero

(that alone made it worth the trip across town.  Me? Petite? Ha!) Turns out, wearing the right bra can make you look taller and thinner.  Turns out, just because I’m huge, doesn’t mean I have to wear boring lingerie.  I can hoist ‘em up and look good doin’ it.

First,a  few facts: {intimacy} is a lingerie store renowned for personalized service, expert fitting, huge selection (mostly high end – don’t say you haven’t been warned), and excellent, knowledgeable customer service.

Second, in the spirit of full disclosure, I did get some lovely free lingerie from Susan and the folks at Intimacy during my visit, but as usual, they didn’t tell me what to say or obligate me to say anything at all. And I’m the kinda girl who just won’t say anything if I don’t have anything nice to say.

Third, you need a new bra.

How do I know you need a new bra?  85% of women are wearing the wrong size!! 85%! Maybe you are one of the chosen few who aren’t, but take a look at your bra.  Does it gap in the cup?  Is it digging into your shoulders? Riding up in the back? If any of this is happening, according to Nethero, you are wearing the wrong size bra.

Here are a few tips from Susan:

AVOID BACK FAT – by letting the band do the supporting instead of the straps. In other words, don’t tighten those straps. Back fat comes from bras that are too big, not too small.

KEEP ‘EM HIGH- by having the clasp in the middle of your back. “Think of the bra like a see-saw,” said Susan, “When the back goes up, the bra falls down.”

LOOK TALLER AND THINNER – in a seamed bra, rather than a molded one.

And here’s a little shocker from me: Intimacy carries more than 95 bra sizes.  From A to K cup. K!!!!!!!!! Holy gazangas!

While it’s true that I got a freebie, what I did not get, was better service than anyone else.  At {intimacy}everyone gets a dedicated 30 minutes for their fitting.  You know they take it seriously, since a full 60% of the beautifully designed space is designated for fitting rooms.

Another thing to know is: it’ll cost ya. Good bras do not come cheap.  It’s the same thing as bathing suits  – the worse you look the more you pay.  Look at it this way, your bra is sort of the foundation (hey! now I get it!) for everything else you wear.  It kinda has to fit….or you’re screwed.

And this is a store where they know what they’re talking about.  I mean, they don’t even use a tape measure. Plus, they throw around phrases like “band width” (referring to bras, not computers), and point out  things like the” 3D spacer cup technology” of one of the bras I tried. Susan told me that employees have to go to week long Boot Camp (boob camp?) before starting, and even then they have to shadow a senior fitter for a least a month. This is not a store for people who take boobs lightly.

As I type this I am wearing one my new fancy schmancy bras (I bought some, too — as long as I was there!) And I feel like something’s changed.  And not just the fact that now, my boobs are practically hitting me in the chin, they’re so high.  It’s a change in how I feel about me. Well, according to Oprah: “change your bra, change your life”

Well, I changed my bra…as for the rest of it, I’ll keep you posted!

The New Intimacy Store is located On Third Ave at 63rd Street.

So here I am with a new recommendation:  Shape FX. It is QUITE unlike me to buy a bathing suit online — I need to try on, try on, try on.  Check out the strategic qualities of it’s camoflage abilities:  does my stomach look enormous?  Does the skin above the leg line bulge?  Is my back fat under control?  But after reading about Shape FX in Rachel Ray’s magazine (my guilty pleasure – hey, if I can’t eat fish cooked with a pound of butter and a cup of cream at least I can read about it) I decided to take a chance.

See Shape FX is all about strategic dressing.  You take a little questionnaire online about your body, then they recommend clothing just for you.  I took the quiz, bought the bathing suit and all I can say is:

OMG.

Quite possibly, the most flattering bathing suit EVER.  And way way less expensive than Karla.

So there you have it.  My new (budget friendly) alternative to my first love, Karla Colletto.  I plan to try their push up, control pants too.  I’ll let you know how it goes.

It’s the new math.  And Lord knows, I’ve never been much good at math. Funny.  I’m not much good at getting younger as I age, either.

This  new math is everywhere.  It also applies to clothing: What used to be called a size ten is now called a size eight. (Though at Old Navy, they call it a size six.  God bless vanity sizing.) In this economy, it also applies to shopping: what used to cost $30 now is a 50%-off fifteen bucks.

Everything that can have a numerical value associated with it seems to have gone down.  Except, of course, the size a woman is “supposed to be.”

Seems to me that the only value moving backwards the “optimum” size for a woman, as portrayed by TV, magazines, movies, and runway shows.  Because according to them, size six is the new size twelve. In other words:if you’re wearing a size six, you’re big.  Excuse me?  I mean, I’m pretty pleased when I’m in my vanity size 8′s, thank you very much.

Maybe it does make sense. After all, if we’re all getting younger, shouldn’t we all be getting thinner too? Shouldn’t we all be careening towards pre-pubescent hips, flawless skin, and the ability to be out in the freezing cold without a jacket? I don’t know about you, but I’m not “youngening.”  I’ve said it before and I”ll say it again: if forty really is the new thirty, somebody forgot to tell my thighs. And my knees, and my eyesight. I’m not getting thinner and tauter any more than I’m getting younger and more interested in The Jonas Brothers.   My brain may say thirty, but my ovaries say “I don’t think so.”

Why, I want to know, is it always women who suffer?  There are precious few men out there starving themselves for their looks.  There’s no iconic big-membered, blond-haired, pec enhanced, tip-toe-standing male doll with a seven figure job out there giving young boys a terrifying standard to which they can never match up.  No, it’s only women who are supposed to be perpetually young, perpetually fertile, perpetually capable of making even the most unflattering fashions look fashionable. (Hello out there in fashionista land, there’s a reason leggings and a big belt look came and went so quickly twenty years ago!)

And while we’re on the subject of fashion: what’s up with the summer dresses?  Are they made only for women with no breasts? Or maybe just fake ones.  Cause I’ll tell you right now, forty plus years and two kids down the line means I’m not going bra-less in one of those itty bitty sundresses.  And when you’ve seen the C-cup pass you by, those built-in shelf bras are about as useless as an electric toothbrush is to the d-listers on “I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here.” Do not big breasted women get hot in the summer?  Do we not deserve a cute sundress that can be worn with a bra?!?!?

I find itall very stressful.  Especially the fact that I’m supposed to “be” thirty.  I’m not thirty.  I’m not even forty anymore.  I’m forty something.  Does that mean that I need to stop working out, start wearing sensible shoes, and swap my latte for a glug of Geritol? (Do they even make Geritol anymore?)  Of course not.  I’m not above zapping my vericose veins, slathering myself with Retin-A, and paying a heart-stopping fortune to color my hair.  I want to look my best.  But I don’t think that my best can be the same as a thirty-year old woman’s best.  I don’t think The New Math should make me feel that it should be.  That I am somehow a failure if I’m not in better shape now than I was ten years ago.

Ten years ago I was a thirty-something, newly married, childless woman with a big time television career and a closet full of heels. Now, I’m a forty-something, long-married, stay-at-home mom with two kids, a mortgage, and a bunion on my left big toe. Times change.

Something else has changed too.  I used to think I was bad at math.  Now, I think I’ve got it down.  Forty is forty.  Thirty is thirty.  And there’s nothing wrong with looking, acting or feeling your age — whatever that may mean to you.  As for the vanity sizing.  Well, that one, I think I’ll live with.

If any of you have been paying attention, you’ll know that for the past several months, I’ve been writing for 23andMe as one of their founding community members in the Pregnancy Community.  (And no, I’m not preggers.  I just have been – thus, I qualify.)  According to my genes, I am at a slightly elevated risk for obesity.  According to my genes, I will never look good in the aforementioned jeans, t-shirt and flip flops ensemble.  According to my jeans, my genes are correct.

I find it almost impossible to buy jeans.  If they’re “classic cut” they make my butt look like North Dakota – wide and flat.  If they’re low cut -  well, where do I begin?  How are you supposed to wear underwear with those low-cut jeans?  And if you’re not supposed to wear underwear (yuck!), then what are you supposed to do with your – ahem – furry bits?  Brazillian?  I don’t expect to rhumba any time soon.  Plus, I find it more than slightly offensive that men – with their hairy backs, fuzzy butts, and occasional ear hair, deem it “sexy” for a grown woman to be hairless “down there.”  Call me crazy, but that smacks of pedophilia to me.

Then there’s the question of how to keep those low-cut jeans from falling down.  Many’s the time I walked behind a teenage home-boy, wondering how he does it.  It truly is a miracle of fashion physics.  Their pants stay up, even with their waistbands way down.

SO I was already worried enough about my jeans, when suddenly my genes had to complicate things.

According to my genes, I am also at greater risk for developing diabetes.  Yet this doesn’t phase me.  Genes only slightly influence diabetes.  I figure that if I exercise and eat right, it won’t be a problem.  But obesity?  I’m a girl who watches each cookie I eat deposit itself as fat on my upper thighs.  I am a girl who almost always buys the size large.  I am the girl with back-muffin-top.  You know, at the bra line?  This obesity gene – is serious business. IT’S FREAKING ME OUT!

And because of that diabetes risk, I can even have a pint of chocolate chip mint to soothe my worried mind.

Darn you, jean-etics!

1. People on the East Side spend a lot of time on their knees, while people on the West Side spend a lot of time on their food.  How else to explain the plethora of tulips, hyacinths, and daffodils sprouting from every tree-trunk garden  from East 69th Street to East 91st Street, and the presence of Zabars, Citarella, H&H, Barney Greengrass and Fairway in roughly the same area on the West Side of town?

2. When your children scooter to school, it is unwise to wear your brand new bright yellow beaded Rafe flats.  You will get blisters.  You will bleed.  The yellow will turn orange.  And not in a good way.You don’t want orange shoes.

3. Whichever Ice Cream your child wants from the Ice Cream vendor whether it’s neon green shots, disgusting Sponge Bob ice with gumball eyes, or even the basic Ice Cream sandwich — said vendor will be out of it.

4. I am old.

No,  this isn’t about my upcoming birthday (Sunday – feel free to leave birthday greetings right here in the comment section.  No.  Really. Do.)  This isn’t about saggy knees, or brown spots, or elbows that look as if they’ve been crumpled up in the back of a drawer for a few decades.  No, I know I am old because I am consistently horrified by what “young girls” are wearing.

Yes, it seems I have jumped right from young mom in trendy threads, to disapproving Grandma in hip-high underwear without stopping at middle-aged woman still trying to be relevant.

But seriously.

Is there some rule that if you are female and possessing of a bustline you must display it so prominently that one might think your are at a State Fair, vying for the blue ribbon in Breast Augmentation?

Did I miss the memo that said your skirt must be so short that when you raise your arm to wave to your friend across the street, you must reveal a thong so wedged in that one wonders if it’s reappearing on the other side?

Did someone forget to mention to me that tank tops must be worn below the bra line, so that all you need is a glass of mead and some rotten teeth to accurately approximate a Medieval serving wench?

Did I neglect to hear the phone mail about displaying one’s love handles at every opportunity? Or the one about wearing your pants so low you practically need to straddle as you walk, to keep them from falling down?

What ever happened to keepin’ it covered? If you’re twenty-something, well, OK.  I don’t love it, but at least you’re twenty something.  What I don’t get is women thirty, forty, even fifty-something wearing belly shirts.  Here’s a newsflash:  I don’t care how fit you are:  unless you’re a movie star or a porn star, once you’ve given birth, nobody wants to see your stomach. (Over forty Olympian Dara Torres is the exception that proves the rule.)

Plus, the flesh on display is not always taut – even when it is young.  I suppose I should think it’s great that these girls feel confident enough about their bodies that they don’t care that they’re muffin-topping it around town.  But I don’t even like seeing the svelte ones so scantily clad I wonder if they forgot to finish getting dressed before they fired up their i-phones and left the house.  Why on earth would I want to see the pudgy ones busting out of their hip-huggers?

When I was a teenager, Preppy was in.  We must have looked ridiculous, a bunch of frizzy haired Jewish girls in multiple polo shirts with the collars turned up, as if we thought the real Wasps might not notice we were poseurs if we piled on the polos with aplomb. Our look was Wasp-wanna-be.

Now, the look seems to be “hooker with good highlights.”

The other day in Zabars I saw a polo-wearing college boy with his short-short wearing, bra displaying, tummy flashing, $400 haircut sporting girlfriend. Preppy and the parentally supported Porn Star.

See?  I’m old.  Passing judgment on the young folks just because they flash a lot of flesh.  Maybe I should look at it this way: when I go sleeveless and wave at my friend accross the street, I’m flashing it too:  my arm-wattle is in it’s wiggly glory.

I hope I don’t start becoming intolerant of other things.  Like people who don’t move aside to let you off the train.  Or people who wait on the line at Starbucks for fifteen minutes, get up to the counter, and then start debating what to order.  Men who clip their nails on the subway.  Women who paint their nails on planes. Rest room patrons who don’t wipe the seat.

Oh wait.  I already am intolerant of those people.  Maybe I’m not old – I’m just me: negative, critical, intolerant me.  And I thought I was getting old.  What a relief!

The two most terrifying words in the English language.  (Though I suppose that “Compassionate Conservative” and “Hairy Back” might be contenders.)

And yet here I am, once again, doing the WW.  Counting the points, weighing the portions,trying to decide if a deck of cards (the proper size of a serving a meat) is the same size as the giant hunk of leg-o-lamb I’ve just plunked on my plate. (that would be NO.)

Full disclosure:  a publicist from WW gave me three months of Weight Watchers for free.  I figured that if I can’t follow the program and lose the weight when I don’t even have to pay for it….Well, then I might as well  just accept that “trying on bathing suits” will forever remain the four scariest words in the English language.

Today was my second weigh-in.  Week two.  Week one, I lost 1.4 pounds.  Not bad.  Not great, but not bad.  So week two, I decided to be extra careful: I weighed everything.  I wrote everything down.  And you know what?  I stayed the same.  EXACTLY the same.

It’s better than a gain, I know.  But still.  And this was a week where I skied, worked out with a trainer, took yoga, took a dance class, took a ballroom dancing lesson AND dieted. What else am I supposed to do?  Cut off my left arm from the elbow down and use it to beat the pounds off of me?

It was also a week where I went out to breakfast with a friend.  Here’s what I had: one poached egg (2 points) and one piece of dry whole wheat toast (2 points).  Here’s what she had: a three egg (one yolk only) mozzarella and tomato omelette , french fries, and two pieces of whole wheat toast slattered in butter.

Now, here’s what she looks like: five foot four, one hundred and ten pounds, size four or six.

And here’s what I look like: five foot seven, NOWHERE NEAR one hundred and ten, or even one hundred and twenty, and lets face it, it’s been 20 years since I’ve seen 130 pounds.  Size eight or ten.

Sometimes, life just isn’t fair, is it?

Straight after my weigh-in, I went to Loehmann’s to  – TRY ON BATHING SUITS.  I figured, hey, I’m already depressed about my body, why not go all out and make myself downright dismal???

I had already been to the world famous Town Shop last week, trying on Karla Coletto suits, and that hadn’t gone well.  I have sung the praises of her bathing suits before, but this time around.  Well, let’s just say it didn’t go as well.  The bathing suits are still beautiful.  Still fabulously designed.  I will admit, I look better in a Karla Coletto bathing suit than I have a right to. BUT (and it’s a big but – not to be confused with my big butt), this year, the suits were see-through.  I’m pretty sure it wasn’t intentional – but they were showing a whole lot more than I feel comfortable showing.  (Or that you’d feel comfortable seeing, believe me.) For $200 and up, I expect a fabric that at least doesn’t show my (theoretical) tan lines through my suit. Or, let’s be frank, the depth of my bikini wax. So no Karla Coletto for me this year.  I’m looking on the bright side: this way, I won’t be tempted to spend $200 plus on a bathing suit!

ANYWAY – so there I was in Loehmann’s, and  as I entered the (communal) dressing room, I see my naturally (and preternaturally) thin friend, J.  (And as you read, remember, she’s a FRIEND) She takes one look at my armful of bathing suits (size 8′s, I might add – it’s not like I was kidding myself) and says “Are you going to fit into those?”

Youch.

I suppose the proper response would have been: “Are you going incredibly mean, incredibly unfeeling, or just a bitch?”  Or maybe “Are you going to go through puberty ever?  And get breasts?”  But no, all I said was:  “Well, I’m on Weight Watchers.”

All I can say is, it better work.

So check in every Wednesday for a Weight Watchers update. I let you know if I’m up or down, and I’ll tell you what’s working and what’s not.  Hey, maybe it’ll keep me honest, and finally, finally, get me to lose those ten pounds I’ve been struggling with for the past twenty years!

If you have any great Weight Watchers knowledge to impart – well, let me know.  Evidently, I need all the help I can get.

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