Vintage Fat

Over the years, I’ve spent a lot of time in antique malls, flea markets, and vintage stores. I’m not a big shopper, but I like seeing and touching artifacts from the past, in exactly the way you can’t at a museum.

I enjoy the little mysteries. For instance, I often see hand towels and other bathroom linens at an antique store, but I’ve never once seen a washcloth from the 1800s or before. Why not, I wonder. Did people use sponges a long time ago? Did they use a bar of soap by itself? Were washcloths so well used that they wore out and never made it to our century? Were they considered too intimate to pass along after a person’s death? I don’t know. If I’m to find an answer, it will probably happen as I’m pawing through linens at a mall booth filled with old textiles.

Another thing I never see is women’s plus-sized clothing. There is seldom anything larger than a modern size ten, in fact. This is true for 1950s hostess aprons, it is true for 1880s dresses, and it is true for everything in between. None of them would fit me. Even the shoes are inches too short.

In general, most of us are larger than our recent forebears. If you don’t believe me, go try on some vintage shoes. Shoes from as recently as seventy years ago seem like they were made for a slightly less-evolved species—Homo Cinderellus, maybe. They run narrow and short. If you find a pair that fits, you can assume that they were worn by a giant of the past.

Our increase in relative size can almost certainly be credited to improvements in our nutrition, and maybe to our general robust health, thanks to modern drugs and vaccines and cures. We are hale and hearty. We live longer, and larger. We wash ourselves meticulously, with washcloths.

Then there’s the corset factor. People used to wear them—even men wore them in the Regency era. And although fashions and desirable body types changed throughout history, just as they do now (picture Twiggy alongside Kim Kardashian—a mere generation apart), women’s undergarments were generally form fitting and restrictive; in the Edwardian period, the wasp waist was all the rage. Perhaps antique clothes are smaller because the people who wore them were constantly trussed, or because being trussed trained their bodies into smaller configurations. As someone who has camped out near party spreads, cheesing multiple crackers, I don’t doubt that a tight girdle kills one’s capacity to ingest canapés.

Even when I was young, undergarments were de rigueur, despite the fact that I grew up during the height of the feminist movement. Regardless, in my small hometown, women wore pantyhose. My mother insisted on the importance of my equipping myself with control-top hose, a supportive bra, a slip (good Lord, when is the last time I wore one of those?), and even a tummy-taming girdle-type garment for when I wanted to look my sleek best.

All that elastic held my moving parts in place. Maybe it even took me down a dress size, temporarily. Maybe day after day after day of wearing constraining undergarments took people down a size permanently.

This theory would explain antique clothes being just a size away from my own size, but that’s not the case. No part of me fits into any part of a hundred-year-old dress. Period.

Clearly, I am the fattest woman in history.

This is a startling thought, and one that first gave me pause. I’m starting to own it, though.

Even so, I’ve developed a few alternate theories, as one does when one is unable to find evidence that any human like herself walked the Earth before her lifetime. (Imagine if every garment from the past had two neck holes or three arms. It’s kind of like that. You’d look everywhere for the one-neckers, the two-armers—the evidence that you’re not, in fact, the first of your kind.)

I mentioned nutrition, medicine, and improved overall health. I think another reason for the lack of antique plus-sized clothes may be what I call the Curtain Factor. When a woman my size died, it was seen as a waste merely to pass along her clothing to other people. So much material! The whole stunted, emaciated, corset-carved family could have outfits from a single hearty woman’s dress. A single gown could yield a men’s vest, a couple of baby onesies, a few light summer frocks, and some cheery curtains.

Just think of how sad those poor people would be. Not only is their loved one dead and buried, but they’re drying dishes on what used to be her petticoat. The couch is upholstered in her best winter coat. Her bloomers have been converted to mosquito nets. Everywhere they look, there are traces of her. They dab their eyes on an armless sleeve, and rinse it, maybe, and wash their face with it.

Andrew Jackson's Parrot

            Andrew Jackson’s parrot, Poll, was ejected from his funeral for his use of blue language.

            This fact gives me pleasure, if indeed it is a fact. More likely it’s just a baseless story, like George Washington’s wooden teeth. It turns out that when you marry the richest woman on the continent, like George did, you can afford dentures made of human teeth, gold, and hippopotamus ivory (although all the wealth in the world couldn’t save him from the lifelong misery caused by his inflamed gums).

            I encountered this story about Poll the parrot quite a while back, but I thought of it again recently after a question came up on Trivia Crack, my latest addiction. Trivia Crack is an aptly named app that pits players against challengers, either friends or strangers, to answer questions about history, entertainment, the arts, sports, geography, and science. Although I’m a lifelong sports fan, you would never know it by my performance in that category, where my accuracy hovers around the 79 percent mark.

            I don’t know what it is about besting complete strangers over sets of fairly obvious questions, but I confess—I like it. I do not like losing to friends, something that happens with some frequency, so I just avoid them, and instead I opt to impress strangers with my knowledge of the fact that Vincent Van Gogh was Dutch and the chemical symbol for Sodium is Na—really heady stuff, in other words.

            It seems to me that young people may not understand the way we used to live in the years before WiFi. If we didn’t know a fact, we would argue about it, ideally over drinks.

Van Gogh was Belgian.

No, I swear he was Dutch.

Van Gogh is clearly a Belgian name.

Oh, yeah? Well, I’ve been to Dutch, and I was in Van Gogh’s house. I even saw where his ear was buried. There’s a stone.

And that last person of course is adjudged correct, the “I’ve been to …” sort of the adult equivalent of the double-dog dare—the logical end of the discussion, or the illogical one, as the case may be. At any rate, it is usually the loudest.

These days, if we wonder where Van Gogh was from, a half-dozen people pull out their phones and check. Before you can take enough sips to stop caring, you know beyond a doubt that Van Gogh was born in Zundert, Netherlands, that his middle name was Willem, that no one ever found the gun responsible for his so-called self-inflicted gunshot wound.

I don’t doubt that we have a richer life because of our access to information—no one loves a good factoid more than I do. All I really know is that it’s far less rewarding to be a loudmouth in the current climate, and that hurts some of us more than others.

Enter Trivia Crack, which lets me jab my finger in the air and proclaim that, yes, Nashville is the capital of Tennessee, and touch is the first sense a baby develops, and the first modern Olympic Games were held in 1900. (No? Hell!)

The bluster of the pointless debate is rich. Although mistakes are quickly noted and turns are lost as a result, it is good to try to one-up strangers. And bluster makes me think of no one so much as Andrew Jackson, that old Presbyterian warrior, sitting alone in a room and cussing a blue streak beside his dead wife’s gray parrot until his own dying day.

            I think I would like to live a life like that—loud and at turns pious or profane—so that at its end, some dumb animal might curse my departure, shock everyone with his vehemence.

            

Toward a Tidier 2015

            It’s the third day of the year, and the third day of my unofficial New Year’s resolution.

            Each day, I target a finite disaster in the home and go at it with everything I have. On Jan. 1, I organized a messy desk in my would-be writing room. On Jan. 2, I cleared off the top of my dresser—a purgatory for worn-once-but-not-dirty sweaters and random knickknacks and jewelry. Today, I’m eyeing the basement, where I tend to stash boxes that may eventually be useful. Just breaking down and clearing up my accumulation of boxes will reduce clutter immensely.

            I don’t think I’ll ever run out of drawers and shelves and closets and dump sites. If I do, there are bookshelves to organize and Legos to help sort.

            A website caught my eye the other day—Clean Mama, a site maintained by an organizational specialist who offers plenty of free tools to help readers with their housecleaning efforts. The author, Becky, suggests an innovative approach to staying on top of housework. There are four tasks that she recommends every day—attacking floors, counters, clutter, and laundry—and then each day has its own particular task. For instance, today, Saturday, is designated for “sheets and towels.” Other days are given over to dusting or vacuuming or similar tasks.

            I like Becky’s specific plans, but the best part about her system is that it gets me thinking about ways to improve my own way of doing things—just like reading a really great book of poetry can inspire my own work. I’m far more of a poet than an organizer (only writing gets done every day—I can go a long while without worrying about homekeeping, but writing is a daily necessity). I appreciate inspiration where it comes, though, and Becky is nothing if not inspiring.

            When I mentioned my organizing resolution to friends, they were generous with ideas. One suggested my mother’s old trick of setting the clock for fifteen minutes and seeing how much I could get done, the object being to surprise myself and keep the momentum up after the clock runs out. That strategy has never appealed to me. I think I can only fool myself by accident. Setting myself up to lose myself in housework will only result in me watching the clock even more closely.

            With that being said, it turned out that cleaning the desk resulted in my tidying, organizing, and cleaning near the desk. While fifteen minutes of effort will never extend into sixteen or thirty or sixty without my noticing it’s happening, a clean area throws the mess around it into stark relief. I tend to keep going if my interest and energy stay high.

            Another friend suggested that I can maximize my cleaning efforts by teaching my child to do small tasks—say, making his bed. But the thing is, my New Year’s mindset isn’t really about teaching and nurturing others. It’s really all about me. I get personal satisfaction from cleaning out the junk drawer. Instructing an eight-year-old in making crisp corners with the flat sheet does not yield the same pleasure. It’s a good suggestion, and I’ll get to him later—but right now, I’m doing some things just for me.

            I love flipping the calendar to a brand new year. The result, year after year, is that I have given myself permission to imagine a brand new me as well—a better home, a renewed commitment to writing, a fresh resolution to be a better daughter and mother and friend.

            We’re only three days in, but I think I really like the me of 2015. I definitely like writing at her desk.

Moon Landings: Professor Mondo

My pal Warren Moore is a medievalist, a curmudgeon, and a guy who calls me "kiddo," even though we're the same age. I like all of those things about him, and I like his blog, Professor Mondo, where he offers insights on family, music, writing, and more. Check him out!

We Try Meditation

            With the New Year comes a new meditation regimen for me—and a reminder that I am squirmy by nature. Stopping and just being is a struggle for me, but I’ve determined that it is worth the attempt. Too much is passing me by; I need to pause, to let the important things begin to sink in.

            I am also inflexible, my body rejecting the lotus, with legs that refuse to bend but a spine that is all too willing. Once I am in position, the fleeting itch begins, jumping like a flea from back to head to arm to foot, then starting the circuit again. My regular life is not an itchy one. My meditative life is a constant, invisible rash.

            I choose to sit in the dark room in front of the Christmas tree, if only for the treat of opening my eyes to gentle, colored points of light. When I close my eyes, I can still make out soft hues from behind my lids. It’s a promising start. I begin the slow, deliberate breathing, pulling breath in through the nose and down to the diaphragm, holding it for a few beats, then expelling it gradually through my mouth before starting the process again.

            The breathing itself is always a revelation. I don’t often fill myself with oxygen, to the point that I can feel it in my abdomen. For me, it’s usually shallow breaths that don’t get much farther than the area of the sternum. Full lungs just feel good. Sometimes I even get a little air-drunk—lightheaded from the oxygen bubbles in my head.

            But the sitting is hard. My body is not as pliable as it once was, and the lotus position would require effort and pain. I’m no Zen master, so I’m not certain of this, but I don’t think it’s worth it to try. I opt to sit cross-legged and stretch my spine skyward. Within a minute I’m sagging, more like a bowling ball than a pond flower.

            Meditation shouldn’t be difficult. It’s as natural as, well, breathing, since that’s what it is. When the normal daily drive is to go and to move, it’s hard to make yourself breathe, as if your only job, your only imperative in life, is to process air.

            There are two things I can count on as I sit and breathe. One is the company of a cat, who is the very model of what it means to be fully present, if by “fully present” we mean “constantly underfoot.” As I sit, Salami Sandwich (that’s his name) comes to me and stretches out beside my right leg. He positions his head under my upturned palm. After a few moments, he gets tired of waiting to be petted and he bites me. I’m not sure if the act is intended as prompt or punishment, but I think there may be a lesson in it—something about not denying our true nature.

            After a few strokes, Salami settles down and begins to purr, a thrumming om that cats default to so effortlessly. I set my alarm to allow ten minutes of meditation—a fine start for a novice, I think—but I am mindful that another impediment is in the next room, and that at some point he will likely toddle in to where I sit and demonstrate his love by, oh, punching me in the eye or pulling my hair. It’s a gesture of love, really, for a little one—he is announcing his presence and making a play for my attention. Teaching nice touches is part of my job description.

            While I sit and breathe, I try to control the so-called monkey-mind, but part of me is always on the alert for a thwack or a pinch or at least a shout. In through the nose. Hold. Out through the mouth. In through the nose ….

            When I register his small feet approaching, I feel him stop in the doorway and look. I am doing something different—something quieter and strange. I wonder how he will respond, but I keep breathing. In through the nose ….

            What I would not have anticipated is the feel of that small person settling in beside me, sitting on my right side and leaning against me. As I breathe, he joins me, and I fold my arm around him. For a few moments we exist that way, quiet and still. Until the chime sounds, I’m sure I can feel a wash of color staining our skin.

New Year's Revolution

            It has become an annual tradition for me: On January 1, I reset the calendar and begin to recalibrate my life.

            For the last several years, I have rejected traditional resolutions in favor of a rather rigorous tracking system that requires me to examine each day’s progress in several different categories, from personal to professional or even spiritual.

            Last year, I made it all the way until mid-March with my plan, which included some challenging categories. I read a poetry collection each day. I wrote a poem. I exercised for thirty minutes, strengthened a family connection, and made sure my son ate at least one fruit or vegetable. There were also categories for professional health, financial health, and spiritual health.

            As a result of my efforts, I’m now a famous poet who is skinny and rich and totally squared away.

            Oh, wait—it turns out I’m an obscure poet who is the opposite of those other things. But I had a few great months, and they mattered. They got my year off to a good start and made me feel that I was moving in the right direction. For that period of time, I was moving in the right direction. And as of today, I’m moving that way again.

            This year’s chart is still in the planning stages, and I would hate to be too specific about it. It is intended only as a contract with myself—not a source of bragging rights, and certainly not a gauntlet thrown down before my friends. So far it includes a section on movement and nutrition, and ones on kindness, parenting, housework, and even romance. At the end of the day, the categories will be fixed. I enjoy thinking about my goals throughout the day of parades and football. I try to envision what challenges I can realistically take on. It seems reasonable to track six or seven categories, and at the moment I have a few too many. Something has to give.

            Perhaps I will think about the issue over cabbage. I don’t like cabbage much, but I try to eat some on New Year’s Day for the sake of symbolism. Who couldn’t use some more cabbage in 2015? If the only thing I do today to improve my financial health is consume a vegetable that traditionally symbolizes paper money, well, then I’m the one who’s in charge here. I’ll give myself a checkmark for the effort. If nothing else, I saved some money by eating at home instead of going out.

            My favorite New Year’s tradition, also food-related, never occurs to me in time to participate, but it comes from Spain, where revelers consume a single grape for each strike of the midnight bell. Taking one’s grapes in Champagne form is nice, but there is something to be said for going closer to the source—for biting down on a grape and experiencing each tiny explosion, like fireworks in the mouth. To look at it another way, here are twelve little bursts of sweetness. Just try to keep the optimism from stickying your fingers, from running down your chin.

            This year, my friend Molly Fisk made me aware of one of her favorite New Year’s traditions, which came from a friend of her own. Molly seeks out a word—or, more specifically, she allows a word to find its way to her. This word serves as a sort of theme for the year, and it serves as a touchstone for meditation and reflection. As I enter a period of professional transition in my life, today I found—or was found by—a word of my own: THRESHOLD. The first part of the word comes from an Old English word meaning “tread” or “trample.” The literal meaning of the second part of the word is lost to time, but folk etymology suggests that a “threshold” is a barrier placed on the floor to keep the chaff from the threshing of grain outside, where it belongs.

            That understanding of the word is probably bunk, but I’m keeping it in mind. I like the idea that there is a point at which anything that no longer has use to us—that has let go of its nutritive value—is left on the other side of the door we walk through. It happens every year, and it has happened again: Once again I’m excited about the opportunity to leave old ways behind and try some new ones.