The Right to Bear Arms

Kate Winslet as "Rose" in Titanic (1997)

I love Kate Winslet. And the thing I love about her is her no nonsense attitude about her figure.  She is utterly unapologetic about her shapely curves, her warm, round womanliness. Hers is a shape that is often at odds with contemporary visions of what a woman should look like, e.g., the countless card-board cut out, stick-insect, body-like-a-mop models who populate the fashion pages.

Body image is a funny thing. I have always prided myself on being quite balanced about my figure, that is, until recently…

Last week was quite a hard week for me. On Wednesday, I found myself breathless, lying on the gym floor. No, I hadn’t fallen. I was lying on the mat practicing a new “arm busting” move Eva’d taught me using the Body Ball. I panted and struggled. I pushed my way through the pain, finished, dropped the ball and closed my eyes.

When I opened them, my gym pal, Julia was standing over me, looking down with an encouraging smile: “You’re doing so well.” she soothed. “Really?” I said, struggling to my feet. “Really?” I asked again, feeling tears forming in my eyes. “Yes,” said Julia. “You can really see a difference.”

I threw my sweaty arms around her and thanked her profusely. After she left, I gathered my things, changed and went for my daily swim. When I came back to shower, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. “Julia was only being nice to you. You haven’t changed at all,” said the judgmental voice in my mind. I limped into the shower and burst into tears. I wept like I have never wept before. I felt so small and alone. Well, may be “small” isn’t the right adjective, here, but you get my point.

Truth be told, I am quite small, height-wise. Small and curvy. A tough combination to combat. In other words, if I were 5 ft. 6, I would have no issues at all. But, alas, ones height—like ones feet—is ones height.

The thing I hate the most are my arms. And, the fact that I lost my mind a chose a strapless, sleeveless wedding gown. Is it possible to have liposuction on your arms? Would I really go that far, if it were possible? I hope not.

My first “Bridal Breakdown” took me very much by surprise. The second one was less surprising, though just as unexpected. The DEB and I were out with friends over the weekend. To be sure, British humour is one thing that an American has to get used to. I’m not talking about the Monty Python, BBC America Brit Com humour, I mean the personal, one-on-one British humour.

Ribbing 1. verb [trans] informal - to tease good-naturedly

Noticing that I was having a glass of wine, instead of the usual beer or ale—that I love—our friends inquired as to my sudden change of heart. “I’m on diet.” I confessed. “And she’s doing so well!” The D.E.B. enthused as he went off to the bar to order the next round of drinks. “Dieting are you?” one of our friends pursued the point further. I failed to see the metaphoric trap door, and ran forward: “Yes, and I’m going to the gym for two hours a day, every day.” “Well, you need to don’t you?“ “Do I, really?” like a fool, I asked honestly. “Yes, you do.” the teasing went further.  I was speechless, stunned and hurt. But, of course, it’s all meant in jest, so you have to laugh along, right?

I felt the tears welling up again, but I put on a brave face, and played the good sport. Don’t want to be labeled as “over sensitive” or as someone who “can’t take a joke.”  All that night, I mused over where the fault lay: in the comment itself, or the way in which I received it. Really, I told myself, I should be confident enough to take such ribbing in my stride.

Later, on our way home, in the car, I could hold my tears no longer. The poor D.E.B., who had had no idea of what had transpired, was completely stunned. He pulled the car over into the nearest lay-by, got out and ran round to my side of the car. He opened my door, and gathered me up in his arms. “I love you just the way you are.”  The D.E.B. kept saying over and over.

We got home and went to bed, I tossed and turned all night. Saturday morning, 5:00 AM. Wide awake, crying and fretting about being a fat bride, with big arms. There was just one thing for it. I must work harder. I lie awake in bed staring at the ceiling, waiting for the gym to open at 7:00 AM.

I was the first person in the gym that day.  I was there before Eva arrived for work for the day. “What you doing here, so early?” she sleepily said, in her soft Polish voice. I told her the dreadful story of the night before. “You must not worry what people say.” She was right, and before I knew it, I went from weepy to angry. And I had one of the best workouts I have ever had!

I’m still smarting a bit from the teasing the other night, but I am feeling a bit better about my body, and trying to gain (or regain) a sense of balance about it all. Over the weekend, the DEB and I went shopping for wedding attire for him and his groomsmen. We were referred to a place called “The Wedding Barn” – sounds weird, but was actually really, really cool and fun!

Since I already have my dress, I didn’t need to look in the gown area, but did anyway just for giggles. There was a selection of Bridal jackets near the gowns. Eureka! I thought, the cure for big arms. So, I asked to try one on. I took off my shirt—had a camisole on underneath—and tried the little jacket on. “What you are doing that for,” Catherine the shop owner interrupted, “you’ve got really nice arms.” 

“Are you joking, or did someone pay you to say that?” I said, once burnt and twice shy.

So, the quest continues. My first fitting is exactly two weeks from today. And what is today? Today is Mardi Gras, Shrove Tuesday, Pancake Day. I can only ask myself: "What Would Kate Winslet Do?" I think she’d have pancakes!

p.s. I have a wonderful new back up plan. I discovered this A-M-A-Z-I-N-G thing called a “Wrapor”. It’s an ingenious little design by Kay McEllin. It combines the elegance of a wrap with the modern style of a shrug or bolero jacket. Kay designs each one individually to match the bride’s dress exactly. Marvelous! Check her out: www.wraporshrug.co.uk

Not your Granny's W.I.

Joining the Barford W.I. was one the best decisions I’ve ever made.  When I joined in September, I had an image in my head that most people—particularly Americans—probably have of the Women’s Institute: Endearing and enduring, old, English matrons who represent and uphold—with very stiff upper lips, of course—all that is “middle England.” Oh, and of course, Calendar Girls. Lovely. And in many ways that is what it is, and is true. But, I also see that there is more to W.I. than just “jam & Jerusalem”.

First of all, these ladies know how to have a laugh.  Last night’s W.I. Christmas “do” at The Glebe Hotel was fantastic! Our gathering started around 7:30 PM (half 7, as we say here) in The Glebe’s lovely, art deco bar.  There, we were greeted by our Lady President for “welcoming drinks”. Social hour was followed by a full, festive Christmas dinner with all the trimmings: turkey, with stuffing and sausage, roast potatoes, veggies, gravy, and cranberry sauce. We were escorted to our seats by restaurant staff in formal attire. Each of the tables was named after an English Christmas Pantomime favo(u)rite: “Dick Whittington,” “Puss in Boots,” and etc.

I had chosen a place at the “Cinderella” table with my friend Diane. Diane and I decided that the Cinderella table was the “bad girl” table. Mind you, I think every table at this event was a “bad girl” table! Although many of the “Cinderellas” were being decidedly “cheeky” in their refusal to don the festive hats that had been placed at each of our places, along with a Christmas cracker. Being fond as I am of wearing character hats for no particular reason, I happily joined in the fun, and donned my pirates’ hat with pride.

I’ve always been utterly fascinated by the concept of the British “Christmas cracker” and do wonder how (and why) we come have to have lost this “old country” tradition in America. For me, the Christmas cracker epitomizes the British sense of Christmas as a time of magic, merriment and fun.

During our luscious meal, the Restaurant Manager went from table-to-table performing magic tricks for a highly skeptical and increasingly inebriated female audience. He didn’t stand a chance. But, he actually did quite well. After dessert, that was of course, Christmas pudding, it was our turn to perform. Time for toasts and jokes. I have to say that the zinger Auntie Dorothy had given me went down a treat. I got a rousing round of applause and laughter, and had several requests for email copies of the joke.

I got four-stars for my “performance” of the joke – which means a lot to me, as I was nervous as heck, and longed to overcome my well deserved reputation as a “duff” joke-teller. As my friends will concur, when telling a joke, I inevitably amuse myself, laugh uncontrollably, and end up hashing the joke altogether. So, just making it through with a straight face was a coup for me, and let me tell ya, the Barford W.I.  can be a tough crowd.

An example. At our December meeting, last week, the Guest Speaker was a London Music Hall historian, and his presentation went up like a lead balloon. Bless him. I thought he was super. He shared details of the careers of a number of notable stage sensations from 1920s London. Periodically, throughout his lecture, he would burst into song, suddenly performing one of the legendary tunes of time. Apparently, the tunes were not legendary enough. He belted out the old classic: “When’re ya takin’ me up th’ altar, Walter,” and when he reached the chorus, he stretched out his arms towards the assembled women, paused dramatically, and waited for us to join the rousing refrain. No one did. He was a trooper, and in true stage form, the show went on. And on.  The W.I. member sitting next to me, who’s at least 70, if she’s a day, leaned over and whispered in my ear: “How old does he think we all are? He needs an audience that’s at least 15 years older.”

After trying unsuccessfully to win the group over with old show tunes, he tried some old, classic, music hall jokes:

“A man takes his girlfriend out for a picnic in a park. They reach a quiet spot, and the man sits on the ground. He pats the ground next to him and says, ‘Some dew.’ His girlfriend exclaims: ‘Well, some don’t!’”

(I snickered softly in the back row, as the sound of tumbleweed drifting through the room could be heard.)

“A man takes his wife out for dinner at a posh hotel. As they walk through the double doors, a gorgeous blonde sashays past them. She flicked her hair, wiggled her hips and winked at the man as she went by. ‘Who was that woman?’ exclaimed the wife. ‘Oh, don’t you start,’ said the husband, ‘I’m going to have a tough enough time explaining who you are to her in the morning.’”

(I snorted loudly in the deadly silent room.)

 “Two men in a pub. One says: ‘What are you getting your wife for Christmas?’ The other says: ‘A violin.’ ‘Oh, really,’ asks the first man, ‘is she musical?’ ‘No,’ the man responds, ‘but she needs a chin rest.’”

(I howled with laughter, amid the sound of crickets in the distance.)

These gals were not cutting this poor guy any slack whatsoever, and THAT made it all the more funny! But, needless to so, after seeing this poor guy lose his shirt, I was more than a little concerned about my own “performance” at the W.I. Christmas “do”. But, it went down really well, and there is a bit of mercy and grace in being a newbie. I’m just glad I had the guts to do to it all. It’s made me a bit of celeb around Barford. I have people coming up to me in the local shop saying, “Oh, I hear you told a cracking joke the other night at the W.I. dinner.” There are worst ways to be known, for sure.

In addition to my “zinger” I think the other top joke at the dinner was this one, told by my jam & preserve making hero, Hilary:

 “A couple goes along to the doctor’s. The doctor says he has some serious news for them, and wants to speak to the wife privately. The wife goes into the doctor’s office, and the doctor says: ‘I’m afraid your husband is in a truly bad way, very grave condition. But with your cooperation he could make it through this. Here is what we need you to do. Restructure his diet. Dutifully prepare for him three, solid, wholesome meals a day. The same time every day. All his favorite foods. Keep him comfortable. Let him have a drink when he wants to. No chores or extra tasks after work. Don’t make any demands, don’t complain, argue or badger him. And make love whenever he wants, as often as he wants. Do you understand?’ ‘Yes, Doctor.’ The wife says. The wife then leaves the doctor’s office. As the couple leave the surgery, the husband turns to the wife as says, ‘What did he say?’ The wife responds: ‘I’m sorry, dear. You’re going to die.’”

Brilliant.

But, the W.I. isn’t just about jokes and lemon curd. At the W.I. dinner, I also heard about one of the Federation of Women’s Institute resolutions for 2009: a campaign to legalize prostitution in Britain. I was more than a little surprised. This seemed a rather a strong proposition for a jam-friendly organization that has “For Home & Country” as one if its mottoes. But, then, as this was discussed over “welcoming drinks,” it became clear to me that this stance isn’t at all discordant with W.I. values, but rather well within them.

My wise friend, Diane, explained: “The W.I. stands for women.  And is committed to the welfare and safety of all women. All women. Every woman is someone’s daughter, regardless to where life may find her. That street walker is someone’s daughter, and she deserves to be safe.” 

This resolution grew out of the concern expressed by a local W.I. (in Bedford, I believe) following the murder of five prostitutes in their city. But, the concern is also one that the W.I. believes registers much closer to home, a concern for “the countless, good British wives who are walking around with no idea that they have been infected with an STD/STI.” The thinking runs thus: prostitution has and will always exist, so by creating some sort of regulatory standard in legalizing prostitution will ensure the health and safety of the sex workers, the clientele, and their (the clientele’s) families. This ain’t your Granny’s W.I., sister. I mean no offense to my countrywomen, but I can’t even imagine a member of the “Junior League” or “Daughters of the American Revolution” even using the terms “prostitution” or “STI/STD” in a sentence, let alone as the basis for a resolution or nationwide campaign! (Please forgive me, if my perceptions of these two revered institutions of American womanhood are not as staid as I assume.)

Such progressive and forward thinking is at the heart of the modern British W.I. We’ve gone way passed the now-infamous calendar, girls. The modern W.I. is tackling all sorts of issues of importance to the modern woman. Chins dropped recently when the Times reported on a recent W.I. development: sex guides for the over-60s. Of course, snickering could be heard from one end of the country to the other, but, I have to say, yet, again, I am impressed and inspired by the sheer chutzpah of the women of W.I. The guides are cover a range of topics, such as age and mobility issues; martial aids/devices; intimacy and libido; masturbation; and STDs/STIs. The videos are presented by Mrs. Janice Langley, a 66 year-old, West Sussex W.I. member, who is also a registered Nurse and sex therapist.  Janice’s presentation is frank, friendly, and straightforward.

Tastefully done, and filmed in Janice’s home, you feel as if you’ve just stopped ‘round to hers for a cup of tea, and a quiet chat. Janice’s tone is warm, conversational and friendly. However, this stuff is far from laughable, though the press mill has had a field day making fun of it.  Janice’s presentation is frank and candid. And there were even a few points that made a closet conservative gal like me blush a little.

I think the media’s reaction to this series of W.I. sex guides says a great deal about our present-day attitudes about older people, especially older women, and sex: ‘It’s all well and good, as long as the old dears stick to baking cakes, making jam and knitting.’ Indeed. I would wager that these naysayers will feel quite differently about it when they are over 60.

I think these videos are a testament to a contemporary “Old Age” renaissance. A renaissance that is long overdue. A movement against the tide, defiantly declaring: How old is old? To me, these videos and the women behind them are beacons of hope. There are possibilities for life, pleasure and fulfillment after 60, after heart attacks, or a stroke. And it is never too late to for love.

And, that is no laughing matter.

p.s. Three clips of the Women’s Institute Sex Guides are available on YouTube.

Holiday pressure

Last night, "The Nutcracker" at the Birmingham Royal Ballet. 

Why can’t we all be “The Sugar Plum Fairy”?

Tonight: Rushing out at this very moment to the Barford W.I. Christmas Dinner & Party at The Glebe Hotel. Should be great fun! Members have been asked to make merry this evening by performing a song, reciting a poem/story and/or telling a joke. Could I possibly feel more expectation and pressure being a “newbie” in the group? The D.E.B.’s sweet and sassy Auntie Dorothy has come to my rescue by providing with a “crowd-pleasing joke.” I’ll share it here, but a warning, it’s a bit rude…

“A young man called Ron wanted to buy a Christmas present for his new girlfriend.  They hadn’t been seeing each other for very long and she lived a considerable distance away. He consulted with his sister and decided after careful consideration, that a pair of good quality gloves would strike the right note, not too romantic and not too personal.

Off he went with his sister to Harrods ladies dept. and they selected a dainty pair of fur lined quality leather gloves.  His sister bought a pair of knickers for herself at the same time. Harrods had a free gift wrap offer but the assistant mixed up the two items, the sister got the gloves and Ron got the knickers. Good old Ron sent off his gift wrapped present in a parcel with the following letter.

My dear Charlotte,

I chose these because I’ve noticed that you are not wearing any when we go out in the evenings.  If it had not been for my sister I would have chosen the long ones with buttons but she wears shorter ones (which are easier to remove).

These are a very delicate shade but the lady I bought them from showed me the pair she had been wearing for the past three weeks and they were hardly soiled at all.

I had her try yours on for me and she looked really smart in them even though they were a little bit tight on her.  She also said that they rub against her ring which helps keep it clean.  In fact she hasn’t needed to wash it since she began wearing them.

I wish I was there to put them on for you the first time, as no doubt many other hands will touch them before I have a chance to see you again.

When you take them off remember to blow into them a little bit because they will be naturally a little damp from wearing.

Just imagine how many times my lips will kiss them during the coming year. I hope you will wear them for me on our next date.

All my love, Ron

P.S. Mummy tells me that the latest style is to wear them folded down with a little bit of fur showing.”