Dear Man On Third Avenue

A love letter

I was basically wearing this, except that she’s hot and confident and I was just hot and sweaty.

Dear Man On Third Avenue,

Spring had sprung, but I had not.

If anything, I’d fallen. At least my spirits had.

It was 1990, and I’d just come from a thyroid check-up where I learned I’d gained five pounds.  On top of the five I’d gained the week before. And the week before that.  I had stood, glaring at the bars on the scale, livid and astonished at being 29 pounds heavier than I’d ever been.

“It’s a side effect of the medication,” the endocrinologist said, just as she did every week. My highly-overactive thyroid had been treated with radioactive iodine, and to say I was a little bitter would be an understatement.

“I wish I’d never been given that stuff,” I muttered, knowing it sounded accusing and wanting it to. She sighed.

“Your thyroid function was so high, you were shaking,” she said. “And sweating profusely, and not getting your period,” she continued, counting my problems on her fingers as she listed them.

“I was also skinny,” I said, knowing I sounded petulant. I told her, as I did every week, about the two hours of aerobics I’d started doing every day. And the way I ate like a monk. “And still!” I said, gesturing toward the scale. I kept myself from stamping my foot, but only barely. My eyes filled, not with sadness, but rage. I knew I was making her feel awful and I wanted to. “My clothes don’t even fit” I added, looking at her accusingly.

She took a breath. I wondered if she needed to steel herself before my visits. She said the only thing she could, and it shut me up, but only because I’d run out of things to vent about.

“Synthroid takes a while to kick in, but once it does, you’ll see - the weight will melt right off.” I softened.  “We just need to get you regulated!” 

Us getting me regulated wasn’t turning out to be easy.  Or quick. The metabolism slow-down had started when there was snow on the ground, and definition to my waist.

Now, the air was warm.  The world felt light and giddy, and there was just enough breeze to lift the hem of a woman’s floaty dress as she hailed a cab.  It was the kind of day that turned walks into strolls, and purposeful errands into absent-minded window-shopping.  Men hooked jackets over shoulders for the first time all year. 

And the women.

The first day of spring belongs to women. Legs rejoiced, free of winter’s spandex and heavy jeans. Arms swung with a lightness no winter coat would permit.  Hips came out to play. The cleavage made its glorious return. 

Oh, Man on Third Avenue, I can only imagine how much fun it must have been to watch the parade. Because women, on this first day of spring, were beautiful.

Except me. 

I was wearing leggings and a black tent of a sweater. It was the kind of silhouette - swing top over tight legs - that I’d always loved, thanks to Mary Quant and Twiggy.

But now. I was ruefully aware of the fact that I was nothing like Twiggy. I wasn’t even Branchy. I thought back to a couple of months earlier, when a thinner me couldn’t pass a construction site without hearing a chorus of “hey, baby’s.” They were the ones with no shirts on and it was me getting jeered. Infuriating. Until the day I walked past a group of dusty-shouldered guys on lunch break, who didn’t even bother to look up from their turkey subs. I didn’t dare say, not even to myself, that I missed the attention.

My giant sweater was too hot for this fresh peach of a day.  I could feel a trickle of sweat between my breasts and to my angry despair, my thighs were chafing.   I watched a man admire a woman’s legs and acknowledged a painful irony - the bigger I got, the less noticeable I became. 

And then I saw you.  You were eating an apple and leaning against a column in front of the building where I worked. I walked toward the revolving door.

Our eyes met for a flicker of a second.

“You’re beautiful,” you said.

Your tone was quiet, respectful, and certain.

I glanced around in what would seem a comedic gesture, but wasn’t. When I was sure you actually meant me, my shocked “thank you” came out as a whisper.  I doubt you heard it.  But I hope you did. Because on that first day of spring, you made me feel something I hadn’t felt in months.  Visible.

As it turned out, the doctor was right.  The weight did melt away. And I fell in love with running, which accelerated my weight loss and upped my joy gain. By summer, I was not only wearing my favorite jeans again, but tank tops with pencil skirts and tiny cardigans. And low-slung flared pants that grazed my hips.

After that, my body had its ups and downs.

It sashayed along shorelines in bikinis. Was lightly draped in whispers of silk. It endured the wincingly painful smash of mammogram screenings and the burn of back spasms that made it impossible to sit. But it also knew the singular pleasure of a kiss on the neck, and the sweetness of breezy summer mornings when the ocean smelled its freshest and saltiest.

Fluctuations and life’s indignities notwithstanding, my body stayed on a pretty steady course. I tried on my favorite old jeans every couple of weeks, and when I had to wriggle more than I wished, I cut out wine and carbs for a few days. It worked.

I had the weight thing down.

Until I didn’t.

One day, there I was again - in my socks, on a scale, with a nurse who kept sliding the metal square further to the right. By this time, I had a new doctor. Who told me, just as the first one had, that I’d gained a few pounds. On top of the ones I’d gained the week before.

This time I didn’t argue or make accusatory comments. I shook my head with acceptance.

“You’re right on track,” she said.

And I smiled. Because there I was. Expanding grandly. With the weight of two babies, whose steady growth depended on mine. My stomach had become a belly, one that I instinctively cradled with the palm of my hand, as if to give them an extra layer of protection. And a promise of the love that was waiting for them. I nurtured and cared for them for all I was worth, because one thing was clear, even as I cursed my swollen ankles - they were mine and I was theirs.

Midway through June, an hour and ten minutes apart (Ben was in no hurry) they arrived. Their first cries were not as dramatic and beautiful as they’d been in my fantasies. They were more so. My own tears mingled with the sweat on my cheeks, forming salty rivulets that slid into my mouth. My big, smiling, overjoyed mouth. As the umbilical cords were cut, new, finer strings formed, and were instantly connected to my heart. Which they’ve been wrapped around ever since.

It took a beautifully bald, bright shiny bubble of a girl and a dark-haired, gorgeous, sweet-eyed, honey of a boy to teach me what I wish I had known all along - my body, in all its shapes and forms, is an absolute wonder.

On that first day of spring, I couldn’t see it.

But you could. And you said so, in the kindest of ways.

Thank you, you apple-eating-angel.

You’re beautiful too.

Love,

Woman On Third Avenue