I am the lunch lady.

I cannot remember phone numbers, new people’s names, or much that happened before 2006. However, I have a clear picture of my grammar school cafeteria. Long rows of industrial folding tables were flanked by that universal installation: The Lunch Lady. It had a certain women’s prison je ne sais quoi.

I’d guess that the Lunch Lady circa 1976 was a cross-cultural phenomenon: whether you grew up in New York or Boston, Topeka or Kalamazoo, you had a lunch lady or two. She sported a short haircut and some girth; she donned the sleeveless flowered frock. I never made the connection at the time, but the shirt had to be sleeveless in order to accommodate upper arms that rivaled the size of most people’s thighs. She probably cut them off herself.

Last week my friends dropped off some full-on maternity wear for me. No more wearing my oversized 1980’s Herrell’s Ice Cream t-shirt and my board shorts. I’m rocking none other than the sleeveless flowered shirt.