Today I Am a Ma'am: and Other Musings On Life, Beauty, and Growing Older Read Online Free Page A

curvaceous. Women wanted to have meat on their bones. Lillian Russell, the turn-of-the-century femme fatale, weighed 210 pounds. Best-selling diet books had titles such as How to Be Plump . At that time, having meat on your bones was considered healthy.
    Those were the days!
       The Sliding Scale
    After agonizing about my weight most of my life, I wasn’t exactly thrilled to hear the news about midlife spread. Our bodies are saying, “I’m going to add a little bit of padding around your waist and hips to keep you warm in winter.” And even though we say, “Don’t worry. I’ve got a good winter coat,” our bodies don’t pay attention.
    Take thigh bumps. To what purpose thigh bumps? Neither hip nor butt, this extra padding is located on the side of each thigh, like a protective shield. It’s like having shoulder pads on your thighs, designed to save you if you’re suddenly thrown against a wall. Our bodies are always trying to save us, but we don’t want to be saved. When all else fails, thank God there are cover-ups.
    I’m an expert at hiding fat. At some point in my life, I faced the awful truth that my hips weren’t going anywhere, so my only hope was artifice. In the 1970s, I chose empire dresses with scooped necks, which either hid a multitude of sins or made me look like Valerie-the-hot-air-balloon, depending on which way the wind was blowing. With time and practice, I became a master illusionist.
    I was also a proponent of corrective underwear. During our Broadway dancer days, Iva and I favored the “tube of steel” girdle. This was a girdle so tight you needed an extra twenty minutes and a can of baby powder to get it on, and then it was a challenge to walk. It literally sealed your thighs together.
    “If we’re attacked we won’t be able to run,” I said to Iva as we headed out one evening.
    “So what if he catches us,” she laughed. “He’ll never get this girdle off.”
       Food Buddies
    When I was a young dancer, one of my best friends was Gene Varrone. I met Gene in 1959 when we were in the chorus of the Broadway musical comedy Take Me Along , starring Jackie Gleason. Gene and I were pals, confidants, and food buddies. On matinee days, we’d sneak off together to the Acropolis Diner on Eighth Avenue in New York City. They had wonderful lemon soup with rice, moussaka, baklava—the works. The waiters were tall and swarthy, and Gene claimed they were all in love with me, but I think they just saw two compulsive eaters walking in and said, “Hey, big check coming.” Elderly Greek men in fedoras and short-sleeved shirts would sit around playing cards in the corner and drinking ouzo while Gene and I shared enormous portions and the stories of our lives.
    I’ll never forget once Gene told me about a conversation he’d had with his psychiatrist about his weight problem. He’d been in therapy for four years, and he finally asked the doctor, “Do you think I’m really sick?” “No,” she said, “you just like to eat.”
    Sometimes Gene and I would go on diets together, but we were both such cheaters. We’d be out to lunch, and we’d tell the waitress emphatically, “No fries, please.” Then the plates showed up piled with fries.
    “It’s God’s will,” I’d whisper.
    Once we were on a really strict diet and were doing quite well. Gene came over for dinner one night and I served salad with no dressing and dried apricots for dessert.
    At three o’clock in the morning I called Gene. “Look, I’m cooking spaghetti. You want to come over?” He jumped in a cab.
    So, what’s the shame about eating? There’s a line in Henry Jaglom’s wonderful film, Eating: “Food is to women today what sex was in the fifties.”
    Forbidden pleasure. How many women are secret eaters?
       Somebody Call the Cops
    In 1967 when my first husband, Dick, was filming The Russians Are Coming! The Russians Are Coming! I got to know Jonathan Winters. I’ll never forget being out