Dear C,

So good of you to come shopping with me yesterday pm – how clever of you to think of throwing the cherubs in aftercare! It’s a cold, lonely world out there, when one continues to shop in stores where the combined ages of the assistants still fails to match one’s own, so the moral support you provided was invaluable. Ditto the awesome way you stared down the Nicole Ritchie lookalike, who attempted to wrestle the last pair of skinny jeans out of my arms. So what if she can slip into them with narily a sigh escaping her lips, whereas yours truly has to cantilever her beer gut over the waistband? Does she not understand that for mothers like myself, the low cut look is no longer a question of fashion, but necessity, in the same way that a sweater tied round the hips has become the new millennium’s version of the Edwardian bustle – artfully designed to disguise what’s really going on back there.

Speaking of which, I am sure it has not escaped your hawk-like attention that all the weight I boasted about losing as a result of all my recent medical tests has returned with a vengeance, and more. It must warm the cockles of your generous heart to see that my body appears to have a homing device programmed into those five surplus pounds, calling out to them, through the subtle use of dessert, to return to the mothership as soon as the dinner bell rings. Scheduling further invasive procedures as I sign off,

Faithfully,

P.

P.S. Hope hubby and the cherubs bought your line about high-level talks. I believe the German Chancellor is still in town, after all. Let me know when the all-clear is sounded for me to drop off your bags.

Dearest P,

I only wish our search for the most sublime outfit yesterday had resulted in what I discovered today was the perfect outfit for the children’s book publishing party at their school: a tennis dress.  I must confess one must have the figure for such a look, and unfortunately this mother did.  I do fear the little problem I have with the size of my arms (not to mention the unsightly wiggles) would preclude even a real flirtation with the look.  The real point, however, is that it was clear this mother had just come, just that moment, from a rousing game of tennis.  It was, frankly, much the same look theoldballandchain has nearly every afternoon. 

Apparently, there are people with so little else on their plate that they are able to skip off and play and play to their heart’s content.  When I noticed a nanny whisk the child out of the gymnasium and on to afternoon activities, I nearly cried tears of joy.  I think we could be friends, this mother and I.  I must confess, however, that I find a more discrete approach to one’s pleasures a necessity.  Tennis dress, maybe, but at least make a show of chauffeuring Jr. home before asking the nanny to take over.

Well I’m off to find a tennis outfit (although I don’t play) that’s much more like a full body scuba suit.  It may not have the same effect as said mother’s display of skin but one must keep trying in this town, after all. 

Faithfully,

C.

P,

In an effort to re-direct some of my postpartum middle excess to the bodies of lithe young twenty somethings, I have joined a new yoga class full of just said type.  The studio director, BS, is, shall we say, skilled in the ways women long to be touched.  Although it’s clear he prefers certain body types over others, he doesn’t discriminate against us olders, assuming, no doubt, that our pocketbooks may be much deeper than those much younger.  I’ve never been a sporty type, and I do so hate to impose my own rigid views upon others, but I think I may have found my bliss, and think you may find yours too.

The obvious question is whether we ask our other halves to join us as they may learn a thing or two about sublimated desire and heightened satisfaction deriving from a less is more approach.  I’m afraid, dearest P, they may only discover they too love this man which really only raises more issues than it addresses, doesn’t it?  No, I think we emphasize the girly aspects of downward facing dog, and all the attendant benefits they may get from it later, and spend a good hour every day or two sowing our own wild oats, if you know what I mean.

I’m off to lunch with hubby who says he’s managed to leave my new panties at the office and will give them to me today.  Can’t possibly be he shopped for them at that little sex shop near DuPont Circle, can it?  If so, he’ll need to explain AGAIN why AP needed more than her once weekly counselling session with him and how they just happened to wander in together after an intimate tete a tete at Johnny’s Half Shell.  Well, I suppose if she stays it’s worth it, right?

Faithfully,

C.   

C,

Does BS stand for what I think it does? If so, it only confirms what I always suspected about yoga, although part of me secretly longs to believe you can really can achieve Nirvana by wrapping your legs round your ears.  Touchy-feely is always good too, although I fear I can offer neither riches, nor youth to your yoga guru.  What if he by-passes me altogether?

Actually, my greatest fear is that he will single me out for special attention, as is the wont of most exercise class teachers.  Even in my physical prime – that blissful time back in college, where I touched down at 115 on the scales for a brief, shining nanosecond – they still felt compelled to correct my every move.  Once a fat kid, always a fat kid, I guess.

Sorry if I inadvertently threw a marital spanner in the works re. your missing undies. I guess I just have lingerie on the brain right now, ever since you sent me that chain email about the husband who was forced to bury his wife in her latest Dupont Circle purchase, simply because she was saving them for a special occasion she never lived to see. Think the moral was meant to be something along the lines of seize the day, but what if she never wanted to be buried in titty tassles and a leather thong?  Speaking of which, they get to be damned uncomfortable pretty quickly, as I discovered this AM when waiting for the school bus in 30 degree freezing rain.

Faithfully,

P.