The Fat And The Thin Of It

by Julie Croft

were a bit dated now as they were high-waisted and very skinny-legged, but dare I try them on? Fifteen years were fifteen years, after all, but I found them and pulled them on and… fantastic, great fit! Maybe even a tad baggy! I liked baggie, adored baggie, because it meant that I was slimmer than when I’d bought them and thought I’d looked good. If they were baggie, I must look even better than fifteen years ago: way to go, girl!

  I yanked open the wardrobe door that had a full-length mirror behind it and stood in front of it without any fear, as the mirror was angled so as to see only from the neck down. I struck a pose and examined myself, and quite liked what I saw. My legs were shaped but slim, and my hips sat snugly within the breadth of my shoulders. My boobs probably were a little emptier than they’d been, but I wasn’t bothered about those. I turned to the side and saw that my tummy looked bloated, not as flat as it had been, but I’d resigned myself to losing a wash-board stomach after giving birth to Penny.

  God, being pregnant had been hell.

  Not actually being pregnant: I loved feeling Penny kicking about and felt that I couldn’t do anything wrong, as far as being a mother was concerned, while she was inside me. I looked up all the foods and made a chart of absolutely the best things to eat while pregnant; all high in vitamins and minerals and perfect for a healthy foetus. What really pissed me off was that everyone I came into contact with would automatically scrutinise me to see how much weight I’d gained. Some even had the cheek to ask exactly how much in actual pounds and ounces! They’d strut round to the back of me and examine my arse until I couldn’t take it any longer. I can’t remember who it had been, but one woman was visually measuring up my backside with a smirk on her face and I hadn’t been able to resist saying, “Oy, The baby’s in my belly! I’m not carrying twins in the cheeks of my fucking arse!”

  Anyway, I had tried to regain a flat stomach – oh, boy, had I! – but I never quite made it, and now with the menopause looming round the corner it was damn nigh impossible. I hated the idea of menopause as it would definitely mean the onset of a misshapen body, but HRT more often than not provoked weight gain and I felt absolutely torn over the idea… still, concentrate on the now, girl.

  I twisted round and struck a pose to look at my backside. Ah, not so good. I might still be able to get into my old jeans, but the backside had slipped and flattened. Bugger that elliptic machine; it wasn’t doing what it said on the tin, but I was back into my beloved Chipie’s and felt thirty-seven again.

  Right.

  I formed a mental list of things to do; fags, then get that bloody kitchen sorted. I suppose it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to do a bit of Maggie’s work while she was away. I mean, after all, what else should I be doing?

  I trotted downstairs to take a good look at the state of the place. The living room seemed pretty clean, although there was dust under the TV stand where the satellite box sat and along the inside sills. There was washing in the dryer in the utility room, but I could get that sorted when I got back from the newsagent’s.

  God, I needed a fag. And a good, strong cup of coffee. I hadn’t had a cup of coffee since I went into retreat, and really craved one now, so I grabbed a feather-filled jacket from the hallway cupboard – one that showed off my new, slim-lined backside – and strutted down to the corner of our street and to the newsagent’s

  When I got back I saw that it was half past one already, so I hunted in the freezer to see if there was anything else apart from pre-packed dinners. I found a couple of steaks and vegetables fresh enough for tonight in the fridge. In the basement, there was a pretty healthy stock of wine so I picked up a bottle of Pinot and put it in the fridge to chill. Good, so dinner looked sorted.

  God, this kitchen stinks! Get cleaning, woman, before the health authorities condemn the place!

  Really getting down to cleaning the kitchen felt good, I have to be honest. Maggie did an excellent job, but actually doing it myself gave me the sensation of being useful: if I couldn’t organise a fashion show or a presentation, then I might as well organise the house.

  I loved our house. We’d bought it as a cheap wreck about twelve years ago and I’d invested a good deal of cash in completely gutting the place and making the interior ultra-modern, with a suspended teak wood staircase, marble-tiled bathrooms with massage shower units and a huge, streamlined kitchen which contrasted to the classic exterior.

  Once the kitchen was gleaming, I stood in the doorway to survey my work.

  Fantastic. Absolutely stunning.

  It was quite dark by the time I finished and the spotlights embedded in the ceiling struck the surfaces of the beige granite worktops and shiny white units and made it all glittery and fit for the cover of a magazine. I sighed when it hit me yet again that we might lose it all. Still, let’s not think about that. Maybe Pam could persuade the Hairy-it to drop the charges and all will be well. Think positive, girl, and put away the cleaning gear and make yourself look presentable for when Terry comes home.

  I’d just got up the stairs with the intention to have another shower when I heard Terry’s Range-rover roll up. It was almost six o’clock! I ran back downstairs and checked myself in the cloakroom mirror. I’d looked a wreck for so long that whatever I looked like now would be an improvement, but I did look haggard. The stress had done wonders for my figure but had left my face looking like the moon; pale and cratered, bugger it. With Terry about to walk in the front door, I didn’t have time to cover the pock-marks up with a bit of foundation, so I fluffed my hair round my face in an attempt to hide them and tucked my shirt into my jeans. I stepped out of the cloakroom just as he opened the door, and I smiled as warm a welcome as I could.

  I could see he was pleasantly surprised to see me in the hallway instead of in bed, and he smiled back. “Well, you’re looking much better, sunshine.” He chucked his keys on the hallway table. “Nice to see you up and about.”

  Just as I’d suspected he would, he made a B-line for the kitchen after giving me a kiss, and I stood behind him to gage his reaction. His eyes roamed over the fresh, clean surfaces, he opened the dish-washer and I caught a tiny nod of approval when he saw it was clear. He then spied the steaks defrosting and the vegetables chopped and sitting in their saucepans waiting to be boiled. I’d laid the kitchen table with a crisp white tablecloth and prepared it for dinner with our wedding china and cutlery. “Very, very nice.” He said softly. “You’ve been a busy bee today.”

  If one thing won Terry back into my camp, it was a show of good old-fashioned housewifery. Although I hadn’t got the recipe book out to prepare a cordon bleu spread, the gleaming kitchen and the effort with the table would earn me a few Brownie points. I moved to the freezer in as sultry a manner as I could, swaying my hips and hoping he’d notice I was wearing my Chipie’s, removed two crystal wine glasses that had been chilling for twenty minutes and poured us a chug of Pinot. After handing him his glass, I raised mine and said. “Can we toast the fact that you might like me again sometime soon?”

  “No,” he replied. “We can toast the fact that I like you very much right now.”

  We didn’t get to drink the wine to complete the toast, and dinner was two hours’ late. Sex always completed the healing process between us, and this time it felt amazingly better than usual. Whether it was because I wasn’t distracted by running the list of things to do at work the next day in my head, or whether it was because both of us were in desperate need of sexual healing… anyway, who the hell cares? All I know is that we hadn’t shagged like that in ages, and it calmed the waters. Perhaps this housewife lark isn’t as bad as I’d thought.

  And, he’d passed comment on my Chipie’s.

  Jackie

  It was Sunday, and Bob’s plane was due to arrive at three-fifteen. He’d been away for over two weeks this time and I couldn’t wait to see him.

  I stepped out of the shower and wiped a circle in the middle of the steam on the mirror so as to look at my face. Getting old was a bit of a nuisance, but it sometimes
had its advantages: for instance, diminishing eyesight. When I looked at my reflection lately, everything was blissfully blurry and I couldn’t see the wrinkles and chipmunk jowls, and as far as I was concerned, I still looked thirty-something. But, when I wanted to put my make-up on I used the magnified side of the dressing-table mirror, because the downside of diminishing eyesight was that you could make yourself up and look like a circus clown if you weren’t careful. I’d noticed some old dears who’d relied on memory to make up their faces, and you could spot the clotted mascara, blotchy eye shadow and slipped lipstick at twenty paces. For now, though, I was content to glare at the blurry image in the circle while I cleaned my teeth.

  Wrapped in a towelling dressing gown, I padded to the bedroom and stood in front of the full-length mirror. I took a deep breath and dropped the gown. Unfortunately, diminishing eyesight did nothing to soften my figure. Cellulite was rampant on the hips, tummy and thighs, the boobs were three inches lower than they’d been twenty years ago and everything else looked like a badly tied up bunch of balloons three days after the party; saggy, sad and wrinkly. I’d been good about the diet since New Year, give or take a couple of days that I’d helped Mark finish off the