It’s that time of year when people flock in droves to the gym to try to fulfill their New Year’s resolution to lose the cookie and martini weight. It only lasts about two weeks, then the interlopers throw in the towel and disappear. Or so I’m told.
How do we know what size we are supposed to be? In some circles (LA, Manhattan, to name just two) , a size 4 is too big. Who should we listen to? The media? Our significant others? Our girlfriends, mothers, yoga teacher, the deli owner? Paris Hilton, or whoever the hottest new celebrity is (because I have a feeling she isn’t) ?
Maybe, just maybe, there is a tiny little weak voice inside our heads that has the answer. Listen closely, because it’s sometimes hard to hear her. She gets drowned out by all the other voices running in and around our heads telling us what to say, wear, do and how much money to make. She is suspect, too–but give her a chance. Maybe she also has the recipe for the best pizza sauce.
(the drawing above is from my new book, When Do They Serve The Wine?)
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When I moved to NYC 2 years ago, I quickly discovered that the women’s clothing sizes only went up to a 12 in midtown Manhattan stores. I was a size 14 at the time, and had to travel to Harlem to find stores that carried sizes that fit.
Also, I live on the Upper East Side. There isn’t a bakery around for blocks, and I had to go to five coffee shops before I found one that served whipped cream on hot chocolate. Every restaurant I go in, if I ask questions, I get rehearsed, cheery answers like, “The bison meat is 50% leaner than regular beef!” and “We serve the mayo on the side.” The implied assumption is unsettling, especially when I just want to know if the food is local, or the chicken free-range. I eat what I want, I walk everywhere, and it works out just fine. I’ll never be teensy, and I’m fine with that.
And it only took me three decades to get there.