I have nothing to wear

Dear Mom,

I have nothing to wear. It’s pizza night at your house. Casual. Easy. I have nothing to wear.

I put on jeans. The thick dark denim feels snug across my belly. I have a belly. It rolls and softly folds into itself. You always seemed so squeamish around bellies. When I was little, you talked about muffin tops and beer bellies. When you saw one, you’d click your tongue and your thin lips would get thinner. I used to not eat muffins or drink beer. A flat stomach was possibly my single most important goal for my entire twenties. Despite it all, I still have a belly. A sweet belly, a happy belly. A loud belly, an angry belly. A belly. I wiggle out of my denim. I have nothing to wear.

I put on leggings. I look at myself in the mirror, examining every bump and lump that the thin black fabric puts on display. You taught me about cellulite in my teens. You moaned. You hated yours. And you were repulsed by others’. Like cottage cheese, you’d say to me, quietly pointing out other mother’s legs by the pool in the summer. The other mothers were careless, sauntering across the deck, their puckered thighs on display in the sunlight. You could see their dimples when they’d reach to catch a stray beach ball, or when they’d bend down to feed a hungry mouth a melty PB & J. You, on the other hand, discreetly danced between fluttering pink sarongs and patterned towels as you dipped in and out of the water. I tried to get rid of mine, but that’s the thing about cellulite - no matter how much weight you lose, it doesn’t go away. Bumps and lumps are here to stay. I toss the leggings on the bed. I have nothing to wear.

I put on shorts. They’re on the long side. They stop just around my knees. My good knee and my bad knee. When I was 11, you found me on the treadmill and told me that if I went faster, I’d burn more calories. I told you, I don’t care how long this takes. I walked for hours at a time. Ran. Skipped. Crunched. Jumped. My period disappeared just as quickly as it came. I was growing and shrinking, growing and shrinking. My body has been put through a lot of stress. So, my good knee and my bad knee. My bad knee starts to flare and I put on my brace. The shorts are out. I have nothing to wear.

I put on a skirt. Not long enough. Another skirt. Not long enough. Another skirt. Fine. I look next for a shirt that's long enough to hide my belly, to hide my cellulite. But most of my tops are cropped. I like the way that they look - enhancing some of my curves and teasing others. The other half of my tops are wrinkled or stained with muffins and beer and who knows what else. I’m a messy eater now: I slurp saucy noodles and lick greasy fingers with great delight. The pile of clothes on the bed is getting bigger. I have nothing to wear.

I put on a dress. The material is stiff and scratchy but it’s boxy and long and I disappear beneath it. My husband asks if he should dress up a bit too, as he watches me struggle to zip up the back. No, I laugh. My voice sounds far away like it’s coming through a tin can phone. It’s just pizza night. I take off the half-zipped dress and add it to the pile. I exhale slowly. I put my leggings back on, and a crop top. I hug my belly and run my hands over every dip and rise, both big and small.

I guess I found something to wear after all. See you soon Mom.

Love,

Lisanne