Does Getting Old Really Mean I’m Now Fat and Can Only Wear Ugly Clothes?

It’s going to be my birthday, soon. Really, really soon.

I was hoping to forget it altogether, but unfortunately one cannot get into February without passing up my birthday. After that, I tend to dismiss any notions of age and birthdays until just about twenty days before the next one. Then I freak out as per usual and fret and become horribly depressed. I look at my sagging stomach and my huge ass and my wrinkling skin and sometimes graying hair and shed tears for my misspent youth, thinking the entire time that I shouldn’t have dropped that acid and maybe should have finished college and definitely should have moved to California instead of going the other direction. After the whoo-ha, February arrives like a beacon of hope. I strive anew to make my life less misbegotten. My New Year’s resolution comes the day after my birthday.

Yesterday, as I was going through the mail, I noticed that I now am receiving catalogs for the ugliest clothes on the planet. Surely, fashion trends aren’t spiraling this far downward, are they? The clothes from here, and here, and even here are a testament to the kind of catalog I’m receiving. I still get Victoria’s Secret catalogs, but I notice that they are fewer and far between these days. (Just a note, while I am getting older, I still have boobs, and I still need shoes, and I might be encouraged to wear a miniskirt on occasion.)

These retailers offer clothes that even my mother wouldn’t wear, that is, if she were still alive. My mother could be a tad bit on the chunky side, but she liked a lot of sequins, plunging necklines and transparent blouses, as do sometimes I. There’s none of that in these retailers, my friend. It’s all elastic waistbands, tunic tents and nurses shoes in the most putrid colors of the rainbow. I take one quick look and immediately pitch these glossy advertisements right into the circular file. By the end of the week, they need a dolly to take out my trash. No wonder my mailman has left his post because of back problems!

Then I open up WordPress today and read MimiSuzy’s hysterical post about her struggle with weight loss and that one of her boobs is now lighter than the other. (If you are listening, God, that is the one area where I do NOT need to lose weight!) I laugh, and laugh some more, until I realize that I’m older than Mimi and probably in worse shape.

Now depression has truly reared its ugly head, bringing with it the ugly clothes and the ugly fat molecules that are fast protesting my diet and exercise plans. My dilemma is this: if I do indeed eventually lose the weight I’ve so inauspiciously gained in the last year, I will not be able to treat myself with a cute wardrobe once the extra pounds have adiosed. This, alone, is cause for great alarm and consternation. I mean, really. Where’s the pay-off?
Anyone have any happy pills they are willing to share?