For the past two-and-a-half years I’ve been a party to teaching my granddaughter the meaning of the word “no.”  I have also tried, with limited success, to teach my dog and my cat the same word.  I spend the better part of my life teaching four children the same word.  One would gauge, based on my experience, that I have a full understanding–and appreciation for–the word and that I would excel at applying it in my own life.  But, as they say, “those who can do, and those who can’t, teach.”

I am learning again the meaning of no.  No, I can’t climb that.  No, I can’t carry that.  No I can’t do all of that.  And, no, I can’t/won’t eat/drink that.  I have never been accused of being too thin.  Since young adulthood I have battled off an on with my weight–specifically how much I can eat based on how much I am burning. 

Then I entered into that most revered status: perimenopause.  All bets were off.  I didn’t necessarily gain a great deal of weight but my body reverted to its once familiar state: pregnancy.  I lost what little there was of my waist altogether.  I adjusted.  I got rid of two-thirds of my clothes.  I learned to live with elastic waistbands or pants that sat below the waist.

But then, the stroke and post-menopause and a broken hip.  I’m fairly certain now that my body doesn’t burn a single calorie for anything.  I just got rid of two-thirds of what was left in my closet.  I weigh more than I ever did at full term.  I have to learn to say “no” again.  No, thank you, no wine for me.  No, thank you, no toast for me. No potatoes, no pasta, no, no, no.  In truth, I do not like the word.  No, I do not.