The Bread Monster

I like bread, I like rolls, I like things made of flour and yeast and as the season of the holidays comes rolling around, I'm sort of getting nervous.  I've lost 60 pounds this past year and I don't want to find them, but there ain't nothing like the season of perpetual hope and everlasting joy to give you the jingles and sugar covered jollies that will set you up to finding pounds, pounds and more pounds.  I've always made bread in cool weather so it's only natural for me to want to turn the oven on and churn out a few breads, some rolls and maybe a few dozen cookies.  I'm managing to stay away from the baking monster, but it has not been easy and as I make my way into the kitchen every day trying to find something to have for breakfast or lunch every day my mind wanders to those lovely sour bread bowls filled with creamy soups for chilies or freshly made bagels.  It's been hard not to pull out the flour and yeast and get cracking but I know that once I do I'm going to have so much trouble resisting the delicious breads and freshly made goodies from the oven.  It's been a year since I started my get healthy journey and I have to tell you I really thought I would have been a lot further by now, getting old sucks.  My not being able to move the way I once did has slowed me down and of course the ice cream cones I insisted on eating two and three times a week this summer did not help.  Now that I'm finally over the hump caused by the ice cream and the evil DQ I am no fallen to the spell thrown over my by the cold weather's invitation to bake.  Geez, am I ever going to find a happy medium??????

Turn your metamucil into a cocktail, honey, Helen has found her happy.

When what was perky plops into a sea of perklessness and your middle starts to widen, what does the once woman of glamour and style do?  Does she rush to the nearest plastic surgeon the make an appointment to restore her per and firmness?  Does she rush to the nearest spa for the latest herbal wraps and facials?  Not if your loss of hormones has made you numb to the effects of aging and one too many hot flashes has flushed you right out of flashiness.  I was a girly girl, I lived the fashion dream, wore the tight skirts, lounged about the house in my perfect peignoir sets, my face was properly moisturized, my eyebrows were waxed weekly and my nails on both my hands and feet were always primed and polished.  I had my hair done every month and colored to perfection and I owned every hair product and appliance known to womankind.  I took my shopping seriously, I got all of the fashion magazines to I could keep up with the trends and mapped my shopping trip with the greatest of care making sure to get it all; from silky undies and under-wire push up bras to blazing accessories, I was a woman of style and class.  But today, I look into the mirror and ask myself one very important question:  Ehhh, what the hell happened?  

I'm not quite so glamorous any more.   I've gained weight, have spots on my skin, hair is thinning and whitening, nails are pealing and splitting, my bones creak, my joints crack, I need three pairs of glasses and my hearing needs a volume control but in the midst of all of this calamity, I find myself with little to no interest in making an attempt to please the onlookers.  Suddenly I'm sitting in the beginning of old age and I don't have the strength or the passion to do anything about it.  I find that I have developed a new attitude:  I'm fat, I'm old and I don't care if you like it or not.  Can this possibly be a good thing?  

Women are supposed to age gracefully--like bottles of wine they say we achieve our taste and beauty with age.  Yeah right, who in the hell penned those words, he surely did not work for television or in any media because the word on aging women is plain for anybody to see--OLD, UGLY, USELESS.  I take offense to that.  I am at a point in my life where I am tired of trying to please everybody, I am tired of pulling out all of the stops to try to measure up with what society says I should be:  youthful, thin, energetic and extremely attractive.  Bullshit.  I ain't no cookie and God ain't Martha Stewart--we can't all fit into the same mold, you know what I mean?  

So here is my story, my quest to finding happiness in the stage of my being.  I'm no super model, but in many ways I am still pretty super.  I have my own style, my own sass and am definitely working on making my own statement.  It's not about whether or not you like me or not, it is more about ME and whether I give  damn.  

Stick that in a pot and call it a hot flash, why don't ya.  

Helen