2) Those who seem to think that they are being punished and so are only permitted to shop at Dress Barn. What nimrod thought that was a good name for a women's clothing store? Barns house farm animals. Women tend not to like being a.s.sociated with farm animals. Even female farmers, who have valid reasons for a.s.sociating with farm animals, do not want to shop alongside them. (Pottery Barn, however, is OK. They have nice picture frames.) These women look older than they are, like they are in some kind of hurry to make it to the other side of Formerly and land squarely in middle age, where they think the world makes more sense. I'm told it doesn't.

3) Those who don't appear to be trying at all. I respect these opt-outers, by the way, but I hope they're choosing to live off the fashion grid in defiance of child exploitation or because they prefer to cultivate their inner selves than because they have nothing but sweats in their closet. My friend Kely is an opt-outer most days a week. She drives a mini-van, wears Uggs and has even worn pjs under her coat to drop her kids off at school, "a veritable trifecta of mom-letting-go offenses," as she puts it. She has decided to believe that she is one of those people, like incognito movie stars and models who would look good wearing a mesh laundry bag, who is so fabulous she can pull it off. It works for the three weeks a month she's not about to have her period. "Then for one unholy week you are just a fat, middle-aged, angry woman sitting in a mini-van," she says.

So what's a woman who has lived through the '80s to do, when all of a sudden she is told that the '80s are "back!" and she has a feeling she's not supposed to partake in the plaid mini-kilt and Doc Martens trend this time around? I still want to look relevant, attractive and in-the-mix, of course, and not as if I shop at Chico's. (Sorry, but COME ON with the giraffe prints and chunky faux African beads! That's where I would go if I wanted to look like a college profesor emeritus' poet wife.) Then again, I don't want to go around wearing ironic machine-distressed T-shirts featuring cereal box icons from my childhood. My body's not the same as it was, the way I spend my days is not the same, what I want to project has changed and my tolerance for discomfort has certainly changed, too.

That last one is huge. Formerlies are juggling so much (I won't blah-blah-blah you with the litany of roles women our age are playing and how many b.a.l.l.s we need to keep in the air-you're living it). Suffice to say that when you feel as if you're perpetually ten minutes late for your entire life; are carrying a briefcase, a gym bag, groceries and maybe a diorama of an eyeball your child made for science; are hungry; need to pee and feel guilty that you haven't had s.e.x with your partner in a month, the last thing you need is for your bra strap to be digging into your shoulder.

And yet, it's still important to you to look good and to feel attractive, even if, like me, you're partnered and so are not actively seeking to attract anyone you haven't already. This push-pull between comfort and style accounts for a large part of my closet paralysis. I think of it as the Comfort vs. Style Smackdown, and which will win depends on the day. See if you follow: I can remember in my early 20s weaving my way home from a bar in the snow wearing open-toe heels, a mini-skirt and a motorcycle jacket. I'd known it was going to snow-in fact, it may have been snowing when I left the house-but I had a creed that was no less principled than the postman's: Neither rain nor snow, nor sleet, nor dark of night shall stay this vain, silly girl from wearing something inappropriate for the weather if she thinks she looks good in it.

These days, when I rush by just such a gaggle of 24-year-olds outside a bar in the snow with only their hotness to keep them warm, I'm wearing one of those heinous goose-down vertical sleeping-bag coats, a hat chosen for it's ability to cover my ears (even though it destroys my hair) and shlumpy Uggs that make my feet look like elephants' feet. I look like s.h.i.t, but you know what? I'm warm. Warm trumps s.e.xy any day.

What I've lost in objective hotness I've gained in common sense and the ability to reason-across the board and in all things, but especially when it comes to my fashion choices. Ronni and I popped into a Steve Madden end-of-summer sale last year, and among the fabulously comfortable and hot (Joan Jett studs, anyone?) flat sandals I eventually bought, stood these high-concept, architectural marvels. They were some four inches high, with fringes and patent-leather patches and cutouts in the upper (think open-toe-and-heel boots, like a monokini for your feet). I surely would have tried them on 15 years ago, but not this time. Ronni found them laughable, and if you think of them as shoes, she was correct. But if you think of them as little statuettes for your feet-like wearing an Emmy or an Oscar-they were kind of awesome. I would be proud to have one on my mantel, if my apartment had a mantel. And at one time I would have been proud (albeit sorry by Happy Hour) to have had them on my feet.

When I went to pay for my flats, I was telling Ronni how I can't wear heels anymore. Sometimes, I can do wedges, but even they are tough for a whole day. The saleswoman (maybe 25) looked surprised. "I don't know if shoes have gotten more uncomfortable or if my pain tolerance has gone down, but I'm done done done with heels," I said.

"It has to happen sometime," she responded politely.

"Yes, well, it happened sooner than I thought. Ha-ha." There was an uncomfortable (for me) silence. I waited for her to agree that I was too young to be fated for flats forever. But she didn't. She just smiled blankly, in that way people who believe they will always be young and hot (and able to wear heels all day) will do when looking their future in the (finely lined) face. I didn't bother to correct her.

Thing is, I now realize that when you're a Formerly, you need your feet to function. If you have someplace to be, generally speaking, people are relying on you to arrive (perhaps your children or your business partner). It's not, like, whatever, if you show up. Tottering or limping in 20 minutes late because OMG your shoes are just killing you and you couldn't find a cab but OMG they are SO CUTE AND TOTALLY WORTH IT isn't an option. Flat shoes: a small fashion sacrifice to make in exchange for being able to walk.

Still, it is entirely possible to take the whole comfort-is-queen thing too far, and I live in fear of that. A 20-something wearing lounge pants from the Gap and a tank top may look a bit sloppy, but still potentially adorable and s.e.xy. A Formerly, not so much. Witness what can easily take place when comfort is the only consideration in the selection of attire. (I have to warn you: This may be difficult to read, but no one who loves you will have the heart to tell you if you are turning into this woman, so it's a good thing I'm here. She lives within all of us.) It all starts reasonably enough, with a pair of Merrell fleece-lined clogs, quite possibly both the most comfortable and ugliest shoes ever made. You buy them because you need something to run out to the end of the driveway for the paper in (or in my case, down to the laundry room in your building). It's not a big leap from there to shuttle your kid to a playdate in them, and oh, maybe stop at the FedEx Kinko's on your way home. The next day, you slip them on, get the paper, deal with breakfast and then realize you're late for an appointment and figure you can get away with not changing out of the sweats you threw on this morning ... just to get your hair highlighted and maybe run to the supermarket. The following day, you decide it's OK to not wear a bra, as long as you keep your hoodie zipped. Oh, look. It has a stain. Big whoop. It's not like you're going to the Oscars ... And on from there.

Before you know it, you are one of THOSE women. You know, the ones that before you were a Formerly you used to look at and wonder how she became one of THOSE women. Eventually, you realize that you only go places-Starbucks, the mommy group, the mommy group that meets at Starbucks-where you can dress like one of THOSE women. That's when you know you're in trouble. When your clothing dictates your activities, and not the other way around, you have crossed over to the dark side.

I must have blocked it out, but when my girls were small, I was one of THOSE women on the weekends and every minute I wasn't at the office (I worked at a magazine that was housed in the same glittering tower as Vogue, GQ and Glamour; I pulled it together to go into the office because there is an invisible electric fence that zaps THOSE women as they try to enter the building). I know I was one of THOSE women because before I put them in the InSinkErator there were pictures of me looking like a bean-bag chair. Briefly becoming one of THOSE women postpartum or postdivorce or postapocalypse is understandable, of course. The key, as I now understand it, is to remember to come back.

9.

The Big Metabolic f.u.c.k You.

If your metabolism had a middle finger, it would be wagging in your face right now. That's how I picture mine: like an embittered, withholding ex, claiming the Indigo Girls CDs you've had since college belonged to him and pettily refusing to acknowledge that you once shared something that was, if not perfect, mutually beneficial for a time. If I didn't know that my metabolism wasn't actually a sentient being (and I do know this, despite the fact that I've been overheard cursing it out), I'd say it was out for revenge, as if I'd publicly questioned its virility or left it for a younger, faster metabolism. I did not. I'm the one who was dumped.

I don't see any other way to interpret its att.i.tude. My body has been a gracious hostess, encasing it for lo these several decades. If I am to blame for anything, it's lavishing upon it a few too many empty calories to work with. Is that really so wrong? The Big Metabolic f.u.c.k You (TBMFU, for short) is how it repays me. Nice. Real nice. Attaway to be a team player.

Of course, I am aware of how fortunate I am that TBMFU is, right now, my biggest health issue. It seems just a wee bit Tori Spelling (who was "only" left $800K in her rich daddy's will) to complain about this when there are those whose bodies are failing to cooperate in much more profound and life-threatening ways. But in the absence of a bigger health crisis to worry about, TBMFU-that seemingly sudden refusal of your body to process what you eat without padding your pooch-can be profoundly unsettling to your average female Formerly, who is, thankfully, still relatively healthy.

I never had a problem with my metabolism before now. The problem was with my head. I was a thin kid, but nonetheless believed I was fat and had an eating disorder in my teens. I have spent the years since unlearning how to be a freak about food and just eat normally, whatever that means in a country where it seems as if everyone's either paying for two seats on the airplane or has hip bones jutting out like wall brackets you could set a bookshelf on. My metabolism bore with me as I figured it out, and my weight had been stable and healthy for many years. Probably because I've always exercised (with varying degrees of compulsion); if I lost myself in a can of chocolate-covered almonds and then ate my way back out, it was nothing that paying a little extra attention for the next few days couldn't even out.

Then I became a Formerly, out came the middle finger and all of a sudden I couldn't zip my pants.

The reason I'm so fixated on TBMFU (aside from the fact that weight gain and sluggishness are welcome at n.o.body's pool party) is that it is the clearest example of the phenomenon that repeats itself over and over again, when it comes to the physical aspects of life as a Formerly: I now have to work even harder to remain in the exact same place. Ever since turning 40, when it comes to my weight, my level of fitness, how effectively I manage my stress, as well as all the little stretches and supplements I cannot skip if I am to maintain my well-being, if I didn't redouble my efforts, I'd lose ground fast. Before long, I'd wind up a large, flabby, anxious and exhausted nervous system covered with sallow, acned skin, instead of the vital, radiant, attractive if no longer hot specimen you see before you (or would if you could see me). It's like I've stepped on one of those moving sidewalks at the airport, except that it's begun to move backward. It was slow at first, but I'm noticing that now I have to walk briskly, trot and sometimes jog outright simply to not wind up back at the security area. Never mind making my flight.

Some examples, as if you don't have your own: A month-long stint of lifting weights at the gym previously yielded visible triceps. Now, if I can coax them out, they must somehow distinguish themselves from the adjacent layer of flesh that apparently has no muscle in it at all, meaning it's un-tone-upable. And when I was in my 20s, I could at least pretend that if I had the motivation to do all the crunches that the magazines I wrote for advised, I would have flat abs. Now, after having twins and actually doing those d.a.m.n crunches (and Pilates and planks and all the other core tighteners), I know I never will. Nothing short of a doctor slicing a big Cheshire cat grin from hip bone to hip bone and lashing my separated stomach muscles together will give me those elusive flat abs. (That's actually how they do it!) And that's not going to happen.

My friend Maryn wasn't a big fan of her metabolism even before TBMFU. When hers slammed on the breaks, "I felt like, oh, great, this is like having a bad relationship with your mother, and then having an argument with her." Maryn earns her living writing about bizarre epidemics like MRSA and swine flu that everyone worries disproportionately about while millions of people do their grocery shopping at the 7-Eleven. Maryn was never thin, but neither was she heavy, and now it's even harder to be, well, not heavy. She likes wine. She likes a good meal. These are not crimes. As a health writer, Maryn knows exactly what she should be eating and how much. "But emotionally I'm in complete revolt against that," she says. "I feel like one of my few routes to uncomplicated pleasure has been taken away by my body's misbehavior."

Maryn swears there was an audible click when her metabolism went into energy saver mode, but for my Formerly Metabolically Blessed friend Karen, the slowdown was more gradual. She was a little slip of a Madonna-loving, barhopping, late-sleeping girl when we hung out in our early 20s. "I ate anything and I never thought about it twice. I was on the smoking-waitressing-drinking-till-4:00 AM diet," she says. At the time, she was working and putting herself through school. Now she's got the degree and is married to a lovely guy who likes to cook her romantic 9:00 PM dinners after they both get home from work, and then settle in for an evening of cuddling and watching movies. Her job as a production coordinator for commercials is less physically taxing than was hoisting huge trays over the heads of wild Wall Streeters, and she's also had two kids. How much of any of our Formerly-era weight gain is due to TBMFU and how much is due to the combo of eating more, moving less and losing metabolism-boosting muscle ma.s.s is probably pointless to tease out.

Nowadays, Karen probably couldn't wait tables as she did back in the day, not that she'd want to. She's not in fighting shape anymore, but even if she were, she'd have to pay a hefty Formerly Tax for her exertions, because her body's recovery time has slowed down as much as her metabolism. When I'm feeling sunny and at one with the universe, I decide that the fact that I'm disinclined to do the things I did in my 20s-work late, go out and get silly drunk and then arrive home late and have cereal for dinner before sleeping five hours and doing it again-is my body's way, in its infinite wisdom, of protecting itself. Other times, I think it's because I'm a big old slug. Oh, you can still have a good time. But as a Formerly, it'll cost you. To wit, here's how much you'll pay for any fun you have: The activity: having a few drinks In your 20s: no consequences As a Formerly: You will sleep poorly, endure a dull headache and be irritable until you retire early the following night.

The activity: getting rollicking drunk.

In your 20s: a possible hangover, but nothing a good puke, going back to bed and then eating a plate of toast and greasy eggs won't cure. Up next: a little hair of the dog that bit you.

As a Formerly: The room will spin until you drift off into the fitful sleep of regret, wondering if you said anything that can ruin your career. The next day you will need to remain in a darkened room and the slightest sounds will send waves of pain through to the arches of your feet. Your spouse will have to mind the children all day, and he'll be p.i.s.sed because he controlled himself and only had a few drinks (and so has a headache, see above). You will then owe him big, and for that, you may resent him.

The activity: going dancing

In your 20s: no consequences, except, perhaps, blisters As a Formerly: Your knees will hurt, but mostly your ego will, because you'll realize how hopelessly out-of-date your moves are and that you get winded after two songs instead of being dragged off the floor and poured into a cab as in days gone by.

The activity: playing a quick game of pickup football

In your 20s: a few sc.r.a.pes or bruises As a Formerly: It depends with whom you're playing. If it's with children or merciful teenagers, you might have a bit of joint discomfort from quick lateral movements-a few Advil and you're good. If it's with a male Formerly with something to prove, you are in grave danger of dislocating a shoulder, getting your ribs crushed, your muscles pulled and reigniting every sports injury you ever had. You will be in pain for at least two days.

The activity: impromptu roughhousing with children

In your 20s: no consequences As a Formerly: There is risk for spinal injury, pulled muscle or hernia, depending on the weight of the child or children. Possible flying boogers increase your chance of contracting a cold bug, which will linger longer than it did when your immune system was in tip-top shape. Remember: Playing with an unwashed child means you're playing with every child they've ever played with.

The activity: staying up all night chatting with friends

In your 20s: no consequences.

As a Formerly: All-day headache, which leads to over-caffeination, which leads to nausea and agitation and anti-social tendencies. One hundred percent chance of bingeing on carbs the next day, because your judgment is impaired, your mood is for s.h.i.t and your body is craving extra energy. Overdoing the carbs, of course, leads to overnight weight gain (see TBMFU), plummeting blood sugar and rebound bingeing.

If you forget you're a Formerly and feel the abovementioned effects, you may think you're unwell. This would not be illogical. The conventional health wisdom is, if you're doing what you always have and notice your body reacting in a way that's not normal for you, there might be something medically wrong. If the problem persists, it would be wise to consult your physician.

That's what I did when I started feeling a little funky. Around the same time as TBMFU hit, and around the same time I noticed my energy falling off, I also began to notice that I had a lot less hair (on my head) than I used to, and a lot more hair (on my face) than I used to. I didn't go right to the doctor, but began doing what doctors hate us to do but do all the time themselves: I Googled my symptoms. The condition that kept coming up was hypothyroidism, which is when your thyroid, that little b.u.t.terfly-shaped gland in your neck, doesn't crank out enough of the two big thyroid hormones. This, in turn, has a cascade effect on a bunch of other hormones and systems in your body and causes you to turn into a man. Well, not really, but the symptoms are unpleasant (unexplained weight gain, fatigue and depression, to name a few) and if left untreated can lead to heart disease, infertility (h.e.l.lo! Already had that!) and a few other lovely things that no one wants.

When I saw unexplained weight gain and fatigue-problems I'd reluctantly concluded were the by-products of not being 25 and of having twins and a full-time job-on the list of symptoms, hope sprang anew. Hmmm, maybe I have a sluggish thyroid. It says here it's very common and underdiagnosed! It says women often get it after childbirth! And it says it's easily treatable! Yes!!

I practically tap-danced to my GP, who ran some tests and told me my thyroid was normal. Then I went to my gynecologist and she said the same thing. I asked her if I had a "subclinical" problem-perhaps, while my thyroid hormone levels were within normal range, they were at the low end and hence too low for me. She shook her head sternly. I couldn't believe it. I didn't want to believe it. I called my mom. "Mom, the doctors say my thyroid is normal!" I moaned. "That's great, honey. What a relief!" she said. I almost hung up on her.

The fact that my thyroid was normal was bad news because, in my twisted Formerly way of thinking, it means that I am not, in fact, slightly off-balance hormonally, but simply fatter, more sluggish and hairier than I was when I was younger. WTF kind of diagnosis is that? As sick as it sounds, at the time, a part of me would have preferred to pay some huge pharmaceutical company thousands of dollars over the course of my lifetime through a bloated, mismanaged health-care system that is burdening the big steaming pile of dog do that we call the American economy for a synthetic thyroid hormone replacement (that may ultimately cause bone loss) rather than accept that my body is changing, that a certain amount of change is part of life and that the best course of action may simply be to ramp up my efforts to take care of my body so I don't put on too much weight or grow a full beard.

It's like back in my eating disorder days when I used to pray for a tapeworm or be halfway psyched to have a stomach virus because it meant I'd drop a few pounds-it's such a warped mentality, and I'm not sure if I feel comforted or horrified about the fact that many, many Formerlies share this view. One article I read referred to doctors having to wipe away tears from women patients who were so attached to the idea that they had a thyroid problem (and thus a solution for the fat-tired-hairies) that they broke down when p.r.o.nounced healthy.

My friend Jen M. has many of the same symptoms I have. "I was training for last year's Chicago Marathon, and in the past, anytime that I trained that hard, I lost weight," she says. "This time, I not only didn't lose weight, but I gained some, and I didn't do anything differently." Jen, too, went to several doctors, each of whom confirmed that there was nothing wrong with her thyroid. One had the gall to suggest that-get this!-she was simply getting older. Jen hasn't given up on the thyroid theory just yet. She's taking sea kelp, which is thought by some (and by "some," I mostly mean those who manufacture sea kelp supplements) to help stimulate the thyroid; as of this writing she hasn't noticed a change, and has also been watching what she eats even more closely. "I don't want to believe that it has to do with my age," she says.

(In fairness, it could be that there's no solid scientific evidence behind sea kelp as a thyroid stimulator because there isn't much financial motivation for pharmaceutical companies to fund double-blind, placebo-controlled studies on things like sea kelp, which is abundant and inexpensive and so they can't make much on it. Those gold-standard studies are the best way to know how well a drug or a supplement works. That said, considering how desperate people are for a metabolism fast-forward, somehow I think it would have risen to the top of the market if it was the proverbial magic bullet. Although I hear the Little Mermaid swears by it.) What makes this particular condition, hypothyroidism, so bizarrely desirable among Formerlies is that it's at the center of the health/vanity nexus (Weight gain! Hair issues! Zits!). It also shines a white-hot spotlight on the question we seem to be deeply ambivalent about finding the answer to: What is simply a normal part of getting older, and what is a disease, or the beginnings of one, that can be treated, thus making your life better while you're living it?

I, for one, am not sure I want to know the answer to that question-am I getting older the way a healthy person generally does, or are my symptoms a sign that something is off, and once I'm better, I'll be back to my old self?

If the answer is, Sorry sister, suck it up, hair thins as you age and a little weight gain is typical if not healthy, and well, you're Jewish, and women of Mediterranean descent can be furry creatures, especially when their hormones go haywire, that may just deplete my self-acceptance account for the foreseeable future. It took me all of my 20s and a chunk of my 30s to get over the whole you-have-to-be-perfect bulls.h.i.t. Don't I get to enjoy myself for a while before I become even less perfect? Do I really have to start accepting that no matter how much laser hair removal I have, there will be more hair? I'm so over it.

If, on the other hand, the answer is, No, you're fine, take a pill, or an herb, or some sea kelp, then I don't have to deal for a while. That's rather appealing. I remember the rush I felt when I thought maybe-just maybe-all these little thieves of my hotness were merely symptoms of a treatable medical condition. The hope I had, until it was shot down by the doctors I saw who a.s.sured me I was healthy, G.o.dd.a.m.n it, was exhilarating. And that's what keeps us looking for that magic bullet, whether it's a diet pill or a thyroid pill or a tea brewed from a type of bark natives of the South Sea Islands have been using as home insulation for centuries. Even Formerlies who know there's no such thing as a magic bullet still pray to get hit with one.

Since that's not likely to happen, I have one thing to say to my old friend metabolism: You do what you have to do. I respect your choices, even if I don't agree with them. Yes, I'll pay attention to what I eat-I'm plenty vain and health-conscious enough to do that. I'll keep exercising and eating right, within reason, for G.o.d's sake. But you know what? If enjoying my life means forgoing the skinny jeans (which didn't look good on me in 1982, the first time they were in style), I think I can live with that. You hear that, metabolism? I'm moving on. And you can keep the Indigo Girls CDs, even though they were MINE in the first place. Someone has to take the high road. Besides, I can download the good songs.

10.

Minor Miracle.

Predictably, a few years ago, my Formerly husband and I went in for the all-inclusive resort family vacation we thought we'd never take. All of a sudden, the upside of a Kidz Club and a pool with a waterslide outweighed the fact that we had turned into the supremely uncool pair that we swore we'd never be on our honeymoon, when we climbed Mt. Etna with nothing but a couple of water bottles the day before it erupted.

All this to say I had to go swimsuit shopping. The only thing I had in my drawers were bikinis, which were ill-advised before I had twins. I had never had a flat belly, but as a younger woman, I sincerely thought it was a good use of my time and energy to do a zillion ab exercises and, what's more, to consciously try and hold my navel to my spine all day long at the beach or the pool so I could wear a bikini. As a Formerly, I now have way too many things to think about to waste one second mapping out exactly how to rise from a towel without accentuating my belly rolls. What's more, no amount of not breathing or not eating would make my tummy flat. Yes, it was definitely time for a one-piece.

I went to a large department store, figuring on a wide selection. An older, career saleswoman approached and asked if she could help me, and I told her I was open to anything, but no bikinis. She nodded knowingly.

I felt as if she were a flight attendant walking me slowly and cruelly past First Cla.s.s, through Business, past the comfy bulkhead row, to my nasty seat by the toilet with the broken lock in the back of the plane. She steered me beyond the pretty prints to an area where the suits were mostly brown or black and had words like "miracle" and "tamer" and "molded cups" in their descriptions. She was a "helper." Had I asked for the serious supportwear, that would have been one thing. But I hadn't. It was as if a waiter brought me a Diet c.o.ke, when I'd merely ordered a cola.

I looked back over at the sea of suits we'd pa.s.sed, told her these "miracles" were a bit much for me and declined her further service. I didn't think my body needed to be too tamed or molded, and I was saving any miracles I might have coming for if, G.o.d forbid, one of my children got sick.

My remaining choices, however, after eliminating the miracles and the bikinis, hardly made me want to go on a bathing suit buying bonanza. In fact, these paltry options seemed to create more problems than they solved. There were the one-pieces meant for serious lap swimming, with the high necks, b.o.o.bs smushed down and the racer-backs. Those look brutal on everyone. I tried a few "tankinis," which are like the a.s.sisted-living facilities you go to before you need the round-the-clock nursing-home-type care of the Miraclesuit. The separate top and bottom allow for ease of peeing-always appreciated-but otherwise it's unclear why you'd bother. Do the swimsuit manufacturers want to gradually get us used to the idea that our two-piece days are ending, and see the tankini as some kind of a step-down system? I suppose by revealing just a sliver of tummy at the bottom, one hopes to create the illusion that the rest of the abdomen is just as pristine as that one-inch strip, instead of the pale, stretch-marked, possibly postpartum pile of pooch that it is.

And of course, there were the backless tankinis-you know, the ones that are like bikini tops with a flap of fabric hanging down in front like a doggie door, to cover the belly. To me, these say nothing so much as "My tummy is atrocious, but everything else is pa.s.sable." Think Groucho Marx gla.s.ses with the big shnoz and moustache attached, except not for your face but for your torso. No one is fooled by such a flimsy disguise; for me, anyway, a one-piece felt more dignified. At least some came in nice prints-mandatory "slimming" monochrome at my age? I'm pro-choice.

I wound up getting the single, solitary bathing suit in the entire store that worked: a '50s-inspired one-piece seemingly custom-made for my '50s-style body with its mom-hips and -b.o.o.bs (Restraint says homage is okay-it's not the same thing as irony). I am so From Here to Eternity.

The experience, insulting and depressing though it was, helped me figure something out: I'm not ready for compensatory dressing.

I love that term-Nora Ephron coined it in her book I Feel Bad About My Neck-and we've all done it to an extent. She was referring to items such as turtleneck sweaters chosen not because she adores turtlenecks and thinks she looks terrific in them, but because she dislikes the loose skin on her neck and sees it as something of a public service to cover it up.

G.o.d knows I relate to the impulse. Like most women, there were chunks and jiggly bits that I would have just as soon shrouded in strategic mesh or lace even when I was younger and closer to the ideal. But now that the entire lower half of my body has been ravaged by childbirth and the flesh of my upper arms has declared independence from the rest of my body, compensatory dressing as a strategy has gained even more appeal.

But the molded-cup lady confirmed for me that I'm not going to go there, at least not now. There are several reasons for this. The first is something of a principled stance-not the loftiest ideal in which to stick my flag, but it's the best I can do for now: This is my body, floppy though it is, and within reasonable limits and standards of obscenity, it is the world's obligation to deal with it.

I don't always carry this "my a.s.s, love it or leave it" att.i.tude in my heart, especially after discovering a new pucker or stretch mark. But after so many years of looking in the mirror and critiquing my reflection, I've decided to act as if, in hopes that I come to believe it all the time. And it's working. As a Formerly, I feel better about my body, even as it gets "objectively" worse. So I'm not buying clothes to hide all the imperfect parts. Not for nothing, I'd have to wear a burka.

The other big reason I'm not doing the compensatory dressing thing is that (Formerly Hot though I am) I have decided that I still look too d.a.m.n good to choose a swimsuit or any item of clothing primarily for what it hides. If I did, I'd be hiding my light, my mojo, my personality, which would make me feel way older than my newly floppy arms make me feel. So no, the skirts I wear don't have to be microminis, but I'm not going to go all Mormon fundamentalist because my legs have a few new spider veins. The vast majority of Formerlies likewise look much better than they imagine they do, given all the changes they're noticing.

Case in point: I have a very close friend, a Formerly with a lovely, if imperfect, postpartum body, whose favorite bathing suit is a marvel of engineering. There are several overlapping panels of high-tech fibers designed to flatten and smooth her belly and hips. Which they do. Fine, but the rest of the suit looks like something an East German Olympian would have worn back when there was an East Germany (and yes, I've said this to her face-I'd be a rotten friend if I didn't). So in love with the possibility of minimizing her smushy bits is she that she sacrifices too much to do so. If she'd simply put on a pretty maillot, even if it didn't have Super Power tummy control or whatever they call it, people would be looking at her world-cla.s.s hooters or her long, lovely legs instead of that royal blue, black and red monstrosity with the strategic ruche and funny little skirt attached.

I suppose I could wear my old bikini, look blobby in it, feel blobby in it and try not to let it bother me. That would be more consistent with the "my a.s.s, love it or leave it" stance. But I find that being a Formerly is all about moderation and adjusting your principles to work with the reality of your life. There's no inherent upside to wearing a bikini rather than a one-piece if you find your own belly rolls distracting, as I do. Just because Valerie Bertinelli wearing a bikini on the cover of People makes it seem like the Holy Grail, it is so not. You don't get some kind of special eulogy or dispensation for entry into heaven at the end of your life for having gone out in public with your midriff showing. You should wear whatever is going to allow you to have the most fun at the beach-and to not pa.s.s out from low blood sugar in the months before you go. If this is a Miraclesuit, by all means, buy one! I have no problem with making choices like this, between two equally viable options. But picking between two good options-cap sleeves versus short sleeves, for example-is as far as I go with the compensatory dressing. No long sleeves in summer! Hada.s.sah arms be d.a.m.ned.

11.