Do not turn on your heel and run.
I PROMISE you this post has nothing to do with the “Frozen” song.
I would not do that to you, peeps. Especially after too many of us having to sit through umpteen versions of this song in school talent shows. Is it really wise to allow eight versions in the space of an hour? Has any human rights group looked into this as a violation of the Geneva Convention?
I am talking about the letting go that occurs when you finally talk turkey with yourself.
And let things go.
The Boden catalog has beckoned me for years to peruse its pages and order away.
In our salad days, we were happy, the catalog and I.
Namely, my hips.
Boden, you see, designs for Katherine Hepburn bodies. Mannequins without hips and a large chest. They tend to be more straight up and down, quite thin with just the slightest hint of a curve here and there.
I love this season’s Audrey Hepburn-esque looks from Boden. I want to slip into the parfait-colored pumps, slip on the flirty skirt with fitted silk blouse and Breakfast with Tiffany’s my way into weekend brunch.
But when I try the outfit on in the mirror, I am not Audrey Hepburn. I’m not even Audrey Hepburn’s frumpier older sister.
Oh, Boden. Where did we go wrong?
But you and I are not meant to be.
I’ve let it go. I’m off in search of Brazilian designers who design for my Sophia Loren body type.
If only they had a catalog.
I recently cleaned my closet. I let go of the pants that no longer fit, the wool that looks good but makes me itch to no end, the shoes that pinch my toes.
And as long as I’m in release mode, I’ve decided to let go of guilt about my addiction to “The Good Wife”, my shame over the occasional Taco Bell soft taco supreme, my hope that I will delight in barre class versus just gamely grunting and getting through it.
Maybe it is letting go of my image of what should be, my wishful thinking, and accepting what is.
It’s really freeing. To drop the judgments, the striving.
They are not Heidi Klum’s hips or thighs, but mine. Not as “perfect” but perfect because they bore two beautiful children, help me run my slow three miles on the treadmill, get me through my day.
Yes, I have junk in my trunk. This girl has back. And then some. Probably enough I can lend you some if you’re shy of a bit.
But feeling like I don’t measure up to the standard in a catalog, a TV show, a room full of suburban mothers who don’t work, let alone the hours I do?
That is a burden I’m letting go.
Damn, it feels good.
And psst . . . on the days it is tough, here is what I watch.