He also delivers flowers from an author friend who I didn’t even realize had my home address [Amy Hatvany, you are a class act.] Later, he serves a hot meal from my friend Gina who drove two hours round trip in rush hour without even telling us she’d been here, because she knew I wouldn’t want to be seen with dirty hair. More flowers arrive, as do fruit bouquets. My phone and my email are blowing up with well-wishes right now.
Every couple of hours, Fletch comes in and trades out the dogs, so everyone has a chance to visit. Maybe I can’t walk right now, but it’s good to know there are those in my life who’ll carry me if I need it.
Thus far, I haven’t been in tremendous post-op pain. In fact, I stop taking the meds about three days the surgery. Turns out, I hate opioids. Did not see that coming.
After the initial endorphin rush of learning who’s on my personal Nice List, I’ve experienced a bit of post-op malaise. I’ve been depressed and I haven’t wanted to do anything. I’ve spent a week without putting in my contacts, styling my hair, or applying makeup.
While I’ve bathed daily, some days, it’s all I have the energy to do and that makes me sad. I had no idea surgery would take so much out of me. I hate to complain because I’m the best-case scenario right now. I mean, I don’t have obligations that can't be fulfilled from home. I rescheduled some professional engagements, but no big deal. I can’t be fired; I work for myself. I have good insurance, a helpful husband/coterie of concerned friends, very little pain, and, because I ruptured my left tendon, the ability to drive. Even that’s extra-lucky. Had I stepped with my right foot, I’d be off-road for eight weeks’ time minimum. I’d be housebound.
Until I lost use of the cable that supports half my body, I took for granted simple tasks, like feeding the dogs or pulling an item off a high shelf or carrying a cup of coffee. I certainly had no clue how Herculean daily chores such as bathing could be.
I spent the last week giving myself ear infections by rinsing my hair in dirty tub water, my own personal Ganges, until I figured out how to angle my knee-scooter in such a way that I could navigate over the six-inch entry threshold to the shower. That was a serious victory, enough so that I started to feel the first stirrings of vanity again.
After my successful shower, I catch a glimpse of myself in the big wall mirror behind the tub. I’m still naked, drying off with one knee perched on my scooter, jubilant in the newfound freedom to rinse in unpolluted water. As I take in the scene and all my reflected glory, I think, "This is a really specific type of fetish porn.”
I finally sit in front of my magnifying mirror, and sweet Jesus, without daily Tweezer Time, all the stray hairs on my face have encroached. They’re reclaimed lost ground like the jungle would an abandoned road.
People talk about having one person in their life that they can count on to clear their browser history if they should die an untimely death. I don’t need that. While I peruse a lot of shameful things, i.e. chickens wearing hand-knit sweaters, I don’t seek out anything truly mortifying or in any way illegal.
Instead, Imma need that porn buddy to promise to be my tweezer pal.
So, if nothing else, I am acquiring gratitude, patience, and humility, one wiry hair at a time.
I’m learning to be clever, finding new ways to resume daily life activities. Because reaching anything on the floor is a crapshoot, I now carry silicone-tipped barbecue tongs; I store them in my knee scooter's attached wire basket.
Shameful, but useful.
For the first week, I avoided the stairs. I realized I'd eventually need to access my office (and wanted to watch the big TV) so I perfected the move I call Baby Army Crawl up the stairs, not to be confused with The Upright Crab Scuttle I execute on the way down. As these moves require both hands, I've taken to stuffing anything I need to carry in my clothes.
Fletch patently refuses to remove the iPad from the back of my underpants, no matter how many times I explain that I'll fall off my crutches if I try to do it myself.
What's unfortunate is the only pants I can wear over my protective CAM boot are my wide leg-yoga dealies. Thing is, I bought them all sixty pounds ago, so they're too big and if I carry anything heavier than a water bottle in my pocket, they slip down when I'm on the crutches I use upstairs. Most nights, I find myself in a race with the devil to get to the couch before I finish pantsing myself.
While I do haul up stuff with messenger bags, I keep forgetting them in my office. There are literally four of them piled up in there, which is why I had to carry my box of spinach salad tucked under my chin and the fork in my bra.
Every day I'm discovering what else I can do. On Saturday, I figured out how to vacuum the house via scooter and before that, I roasted a chicken Thomas Keller-style. Poor Fletch had to hear me gloat about making a magnificent dinner with, "One foot tied behind my back!" the whole night, but I believe it was worth it. Suspect it was less obnoxious than the string of great meals I made a few years ago when I kept exclaiming, “I am the Babe Ruth of making dinner!”
Losing my fitness trajectory has bothered me most. The first couple of weeks, I tried doing these sit-and-be-fit videos for seniors, but the music was a serious buzzkill. I am more Eazy-E and less Swingtime with the Oldies! Plus, I felt awful getting being bested by arthritic eighty-year-olds.
[Not metaphorically, literally.]
Then I found a series of videos from LiveExercise Launchpad. A trainer would demonstrate seated exercises for those with limited mobility and the morbidly obese. She’d work out with a bigger man named Rob. His size matched his enthusiasm. He was so keen on being in these videos. Oh, such gusto and passion he had, repeating every one of the trainer’s commands.
What I’m saying is motherfucker could not shut up.
I hated him.
I was so weak, so tired, but I was not about to let this peppy loudmouth lap me. Couldn’t have it. My competitive nature kicked in and drove me to last five minutes, then ten, then fifteen. I worked harder because of him. He’s why I’ve been given the okay to get back in the pool for aqua fitness, provided I'm wearing my special protective boot. The orthopedic surgeon said, "You can't hurt yourself in the water." I chose not to mention how I'd hurt myself on the way home from the opera because I didn't want him to change his mind.
After my first water aerobics session, I’m still terribly weak and every senior in the class outlasts me.
[BTW, the golden gals don’t mess around. Those ladies ain’t playing.]
Part of my performance problems stem from not using the right equipment. I have a boot cover that is supposed to be "suitable for swimming” yet it actually “sucks for swimming."
Technically, my boot stays watertight under the cover, but I have so much air trapped that I cannot not keep my leg submerged for the life of me. Every thirty seconds my damn foot bursts up out of the water like the splashdown of the Apollo 15 command module Endeavor. Very frustrating on all counts, especially because I’m wiped out two days following the session.
It’s a problem.
That I will somehow solve.
I spend all week trying to figure out how to befriend Kobe Bryant. I saw a documentary about his Achilles rupture and we’ve gone through so many of the same things. (Maybe to slightly different degrees.) He even inspires me to find a high-tech Achilles boot like his. This may be the first time a sports celebrity has influenced my choice in footwear.
Now I’m determined that he and I would be besties because we have so much in common.
He’s an athlete, I’m an athlete.
It’s like we were separated at birth.
I wonder how he feels about yoga pants?
When I return to aqua aerobics today, I have an additional week's worth of rest under my belt, as well as a VACOcast with optional waterproof cover, and a pump to remove excess air, thanks to Kobe.
Point of clarification, Kobe didn’t send this to me. After I saw a picture of him wearing one of these at a gala [because I was Google-stalking him], I tried to
place an order on the manufacturer’s website, but they were sold out in my size.
Fortunately, I found a used boot for sale on Craigslist. Fletch and I met up at a Dunkin’ Donuts with a twenty-something guy who was selling his, having just graduated back into wearing shoes after four months. His friends were with him and they were so sweet, talking about how the kid had struggled with this injury, too.
Unfortunately, I decided to pick up a dozen chocolate glazed and jelly-filled, in addition to my new DME.
Baby steps.
Going forward, I won't take fitness for granted again, I'm sure of it.
While learning to live with a temporary disability, I’ve come to appreciate the simple activities of daily life, like running to the door to sign for a package, carrying a cup of tea up the stairs, or delivering a well-deserved roundhouse kick when I learn too late that a certain spouse subbed regular aspirin for the chewable kind I’d requested without first informing me.
On these sub-zero February days, when I use my knee-scooter to get to the garage, slide down the two steps on my butt, crutch the car, drive to the gym, crutch to the car’s hatch, take out my second scooter while standing on one leg, scoot to the locker room, shrug into my swimsuit while trying to not topple over, scoot down the wet tile hallway to the pool, crawl into the water for aqua aerobics, and then do the whole thing in reverse while my wet hair freezes as I stuff my scooter back into the car, I have to wonder how much easier exercise will be when I can do it without a whole Walgreen’s worth of durable medical equipment.
Considerable, I suspect.
After class, I chat in the locker room with some of the nice ladies on my Lose to Win team. [Yes, I’m still tracking my diet and counting my aqua aerobics sessions for the competition. My participation counts and I think I’m losing. I can’t tell because I can’t stand still enough on the scale with one leg.] I’d normally join my teammates in the hot tub, but I fear that in the new rubber casing, I’ll cook my foot sous vide.
Anyway, I make the point that the biggest challenge thus far has been trying to maintain my dignity. I tell her about how a couple of nights ago, I made these gorgeous chocolate-dipped strawberries for Valentine's Day, thinking said dish seemed "romantic."
Fletch came into the kitchen while I was eating one of the gorgeous, romantic berries. He found me leaning over the sink to catch the crumbs I couldn't retrieve, on my scooter with my barbecue tongs in the basket and a diet iced tea in my pocket, pants flying at half-mast.
I realized then the dignity ship has long since sailed.
Even though I spend five months in a boot (even while sleeping) and six months in physical therapy, the Achilles rupture ends up being the best thing to ever happen to me. Fletch posits this is because with the temporary handicapped sticker, I got the best parking spots. Also, everyone moved out of my way when they saw me coming on my scooter. Essentially, this is everything I ever wanted out of life. But I think it’s so much more than that.
Without having lost my capability to walk, I would have never appreciated the miracle that is the functional human body. Maybe I would have kept up my healthier habits, but maybe I wouldn’t.
Now I’m sure I will.
At this point, I’m down about eighty pounds. Having never lost significant amounts of weight, I didn’t know I’d have to replace all my underwear – who would have guessed your skivvies don’t just shrink along with you?
The day I realize I need to order more, I’m sitting in my office. I need to go smaller, but I can’t recall what size I’ve been in for so long. So I simply drop trou at my computer because that’s the most expedient way to check the tag.
Poor Fletch.
There’s always something unexpected going on when he steps into my office, like the time I was doing research for a book and he was all, “Are you... watching Pantera videos?” As I’m bent over, I don’t see him when he walks into my office and encounters my bare, full moon – I only hear him scuttling away, saying, “Nope, nope, nope, don’t tell me, don’t want to know.”
I know I’ve lost weight during the Achilles debacle, but I don’t realize how much until I’m trying to get dressed for an event and every item I own is huge.
Hand to God, I didn’t know clothes could get bigger.
That’s why after twenty-three years of having to shop exclusively in plus, I get to walk [hobble] into the regular-sized department at Lord & Taylor for the first time. I’m so ready to step into a fitting room with sizes that might finally slide over my shoulders and past my hips.
Of course, the only thing I see are ponchos. There are frigging ponchos everywhere. While I love ponchos, I want to punch a mannequin because, damn it, I could fit into a blanket with a hole cut in the neck a hundred pounds ago.
Then, once I find regular-people sized things that are not ponchos, I panic that snotty saleswomen won’t let me shop, à la Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. This triggers every fear, every anxiety I thought long since dormant.
They’ll know I don’t belong. They’ll smell it on me.
I worry they’ll direct me back past the area where snow tires are sold, which no one realizes Lord & Taylor even carries, returning to the plus department where I belong, if for no reason than I’ve been there for two and a half decades.
When I finally do run across a clerk, I notice she’s wearing black opaque tights and a pair of silver sparkle Toms and I finally grasp that I have nothing to fear here.
I try on several items.
Ultimately, I buy a poncho.
This time, because I want to.
Six
Color Wars, A Timeline
“Style isn’t just about what you wear, it’s about how you live.”
- Lilly Pulitzer
October 1980
The Preppy Handbook is published. I’m twelve years old and unfamiliar with the concept of satire. I take everything Lisa Birnbach writes as moral imperative. When she says Lilly Pulitzer is “key,” I interpret this as gospel truth.
Again, because I’m twelve and a product of a sub-par public school system.
I pledge to find me some Lilly but I quickly discover I’ve neither the funds nor access here in North Central Indiana. Yet there are half a dozen spots locally where I might procure a Carhartt protective work jacket.
In my nascent opinion, this sums up everything wrong with where I live.
I content myself with argyle socks and alligator shirts [yes, I realize it’s technically a crocodile, I told you I went to a shitty middle school] procured at the neighborhood golf course pro shop. Am deeply disappointed that I can’t acquire any Lilly and even more so that my friends won’t call me “Muffy,” no matter how much I plead.
Make long-term plans to find better friends.
Years later, I’ll hear Lisa Birnbach speak at a lunch. Within the first thirty seconds, she alienates half the audience – myself included – in a hateful political rant, apropos of nothing.
Never meet your idols, you’ll only be disappointed.
June 1990
I spend the summer living in Boston. For the first time, I witness people wearing Lilly togs. Is glorious! Now I finally have access to shop Lilly, but no cash to buy her as I’m saving for tuition.
I concentrate on an achievable sartorial goal. I make daily jaunts to the Jordan Marsh department store, demanding to know when they’re getting the Kelly-green, boat-shoe-soled Keds I saw in a magazine. The sneakers arrive the day before I return to Indiana. All’s right in the world.
Mid 1990s
Yeah, still at college. Grunge is on trend and I wear Birkenstocks, which would clash audibly with the shift dresses I can’t afford anyway. I forget about Lilly.
For now.
Late 1990s
I’m hired by an insurance company to call on physicians on the North Shore of Chicago. I visit Lake Forest for the first time. I recall this place being “key,” per Birnbach. I spot much free-range Lilly on the street. I’m ever-so charmed by the cacophony
of pinks, greens, and yellows. Yet it’s still too expensive; is like Lilly and I are destined to be apart forever.
Early to mid 2000s
A bunch of stupid shit happens, most of it terrible, unless you enjoy reading riches-to-rags memoirs, in which case, do I have some stories for you! Acquiring Lilly takes a backseat to trying to pay the gas bill with a voucher from the CoinStar.
August 2009
I visit the Hamptons for the first time. Twenty-nine years and a few bestselling books later, I can finally afford Lilly.
Except now I’m too fat for her clothes.
P.S., Lilly fabric is sold only in one-yard strips. Per crafty friends, it would be “a total fucking nightmare” to align prints and sew me a shift dress. At this point, Lilly and I are the would-be lovers in a romantic comedy. The audience knows we’d be so perfect together, truly happy, except we’re perpetually just missing each other at the corner coffee shop or catching the other’s eye as we travel on trains going in the opposite directions.
Really, it’s a goddamned tragedy.
August 2009 to January 2015
I do the plus-size walk of shame through the Lilly department to ogle the goods. I’m on guard for the salesclerks who’ll ask me if I’m shopping for a gift, or perhaps a daughter, because… Bitches never complete their sentences, yet their meaningful silences speak volumes, as in No Pulitzer for you, Porky.
Whenever left to browse without judgment, I buy an accessory. Of course the scarves’ bold colors and patterns seem custom-made for my skin tone.
Of course they do.
January 2015
Target announces a partnership with Lilly Pulitzer, which is set to include plus-size. I scream with so much joy that I lose my voice.
Social media explodes with the news. Over-privileged sorority girls and plus-size bloggers alike are appalled, for very different reasons. The bloggers are pissed because the plus items will be sold only on line, which is yet another insult as Target seems to consider bigger women and pregnant women to be one and the same.
Stories I'd Tell in Bars Page 7