Back several years, when menopause reared its unpredictable head, I decided to face the issue cold turkey. The pounds appeared overnight, but I was too invested in staying sane through the flashes and mood swings to care about weight.

Fifteen pounds later, on the other side of sweaty and grumpy, I was less than pleased with my expanded body and went back to a low calorie, jog daily routine. Got myself down to size ten and managed to stay there for a few years, until the arthritis in my knees became a royal pain. I had to switch from running to walking, and one day there I was looking very much like my round Auntie Jane.

Yep, despite walking every day and eating a fairly healthy diet, genetics had caught up with me. I admit I railed for a while against the concept of not being svelte, but when I tried to lose a few pounds, it was downright impossible without starving and feeling miserable.

It became an uphill battle that wasn’t worth the fight. While I really wanted to squeeze into those small jeans in the closet, one snug leg in suggested a size up would be more comfortable. And then there was the skirt fiasco.

It was long, sleek, and silky. The soft rayon cascaded from the clips of the hanger like fall leaves drifting from tree limbs. The delicate print was black, tan, and white paisley. The top had a narrow cut that hugged close to the hips. The tulip flare at the calf-length hemline added an appealing bounce. I’d had it for years. It was my favorite skirt.

Slipping it out of the closet, I posed in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom holding the garment, still clipped to the hanger, against my body. It rippled down the middle of me like a thin scarf. Keeping a positive albeit unrealistic attitude, I thought how I’d love to wear my skirt to a Happy New Year brunch scheduled for the next week with an old college girlfriend.

Taking the garment off the hanger, I tossed it over my head and wiggled my torso through the forgiving elastic waistband. For a moment I remembered its old easy slide down my body. The memory passed quickly, replaced by a pinching squeeze above my navel where the skirt was bunched tight like a rubber band ready to pop.

I unwound the material an inch or two, tugged at the hem, and wriggled my hips in an attempt to get things in place. The cat, awakened by the commotion, wove between my legs. I tripped over her gracefully and plopped to the floor, the wad of skirt grabbing my middle. I landed directly in front of the full-length mirror, the cat in my lap preening in the tangle.

There are incidences in life where one’s choices are simple - laugh or cry. I ditched the tears and chose laughter. And the instant I did, a comment my round Auntie Jane had once made about her wardrobe became clear in my mind. “I never keep any clothing that doesn’t fit, no matter how much I like it,” she said. “You can’t put yesterday’s clothes on today’s evolving woman.” I decided there in a heap on the floor that it was time to get a grip, make some real adjustments in the outdated concept of ageless skinny girl.

On the brunch date with my girlfriend, I wore a new dress that didn’t bunch anywhere. The meal was great, the conversation stimulating and fun. We had ice cream for dessert and I didn’t have to loosen anything to breathe. From there we went to the shoe store, both ignoring the cute little heels and heading straight for comfort and support. I slipped into a solid pair of Dr. Scholl’s, and when I looked in the mirror I was overcome with happiness. I did have a niggling feeling there was a lot more inner work to be done, but in the moment I was good, the picture of dear Auntie Jane and no sign of yesterday’s clothes.

Happy New Year from this old girl!

Carole Marshall is a former columnist and feature writer for a national magazine. Her stories have been published in Chicken Soup for the Soul books. She has written two novels and one fitness book. She is Mom, Grandma, Great-Grandma to some spectacular kiddos.