Hippy is Not a Guy with Long Hair

I’m like Shakira--my hips don’t lie; even when threatened. Don't ask me how I know.

However, without much coaxing they’re willing to reveal every bite of doughnut I’ve had in the past ten years. Try to stuff them into a pair of pantyhose and they’ll also let on what happened to the last box of Thin Mints, the banana bread the neighbor brought when the Captain was flu-bound, and the six dozen zombie cupcakes intended for the third grade Halloween party.

My hips and I have never had a very good relationship. All I long for is to see daylight between my thighs one time before I die. On the other hand my hips fantasize of a day when we can coexist on the buffet deck of the Love Boat without me snarling every time a skinny chick sucks down a piece of cheesecake.

These days they’re spreading the dream to my chins, who have rebelled and resorted to disguising cupcake crumbs in their folds for a late night snack. I’m so nearsighted, I thought it was just stray whiskers. If I ever locate my bifocals, I intend to act sternly in regards to my personal appearance even if I have to read up on excavation techniques to dislodge a certain Hostess Twinkie that's been missing in action for several days.

When I was fifteen, I was all shin bones and shoulder blades. Now I’m fifty and I’ve discovered that love handles are the new hipbones. I used to sing “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes,” but now I have to admit that my head and toes lost touch long before I discovered the beauty of a long distance relationship. My knees are still active, though. They take every possible opportunity to go out. So these days, I’m more likely to sing “Shake, Rattle, and Roll” and hope I don’t lose anything important when I stand up.

Last week I wanted to buy a pair of hip hugger jeans, but I had to get three estimates on the location of my navel to determine the right size. I was going to wear them with a halter top just like the old days, but my kids hit me with a restraining order, the comic strip character Cathy came out of retirement to stage an intervention, and the government declared the entire Head to Toe area unsafe. I’m expecting FEMA to approve my application for natural disaster assistance any day now and Naval engineers to construct an overflow device to be worn around my waist.

In the meantime, I’m investing heavily in Krispy Kreme; specifically Cruellers, Raspberry Filled and Chocolate Glazed. Because even though hips don’t lie, maybe they can be bribed to keep the sugar coated truth to themselves.

I'm Not Hip

The style these days is for young people to wear hiphuggers. From what I’ve seen, these pants don’t just hug; they hang on for dear life. It’s not that I mind the lowcut styles. It’s just that when I see that much of a child’s behind, I have to fight the urge to puff it with a cloud of baby powder and slap a diaper on it.

Ever the hitchhiker on the fashion superhighway, I ventured into the local Hip Bones R Us to give the new style a try. Sure, I wore hiphuggers when I was a teenager, but that was two children and a chocolate laden post-divorce feeding frenzy ago. Maybe now I need something a little more forgiving. I don't want to give the impression that my underwear might spontaneously combust when I walk across a room.

I came out of the dressing room like an American Idol contestant that sang Happy Birthday to Simon in the key of X. When the saleslady cocks her head to one side and calls you Sweetie like you’re the last one left on the Atkins diet, you know something’s wrong. I was going to call my husband for support, but my cell phone was wedged under what I think used to be my hip bone. My appendix buzzed every time I missed a call.

The belly shirt I rolled on with the outfit did nothing to hide my personal information from random passers by. The janitor at the mall now knows I had two emergency C-Sections and an unfortunate run-in with a weed eater, and you can Mapquest my stretch marks on the Internet.

It seems to me it would be a good deal more flattering if the shirts were hip huggers and the trousers were belly pants. Then I could have an extra muffin for breakfast without tipping off everyone at the office as to how many poppy seeds were involved.

I’ve read that fashions are designed for size zero runway models who exist on soy shavings and bottled water and who have legs longer than a New York traffic jam. If so, I can see why these pants are all the rage. It's road rage.