January 18, 2011
Week Two of get-up-ready-and-in-the-car-by-7.50-or-find-your-own-way-to-school-and-work.
There were some rough patches last week, I won't lie.
But we managed.
We persevered.
No fist-to-cuffs ensued.
Although we were close.
At one point, I was considering how I could both maneuver the car through rush-hour morning traffic and act as referee to Keith and Em.
While not allowing myself the pleasure of plowing into the back of someone whose Timmies fix is more important than allowing the excessive traffic on Prospect through, thus leading them to bring the Tim Horton's drive thru line up into the street.
Thankfully, the processed meat incident of Saturday evening had no long term repercussions on my weight loss.
Another 2.2 pounds have bitten the dust, bringing the total to 37.2 pounds lost since October.
I know I've lost this weight, however, I still can't see it.
Nonetheless, there have been improvements in the clothing department.
First off, I engaged in a huge closet purge of clothes of over the holidays.
Getting rid of all of the fat clothes I know I will NEVER wear again because I will be far too small to fit into them.
This process was a bit like a scavenger hunt.
As I was getting rid of things, other articles of clothing that I had relegated to unseen places because I could no longer wear them, emerged from the hidden spaces at the top and in the back of my closet.
Hmmmmm. . . .I thought.
Should I try these on?
Or, will I be subjecting myself to unnecessary torture?
Tried on a lovely black with light blue pinstripe suit the other day.
Jacket and pants.
BOTH fit beautifully!
I hadn't been able to wear that suit for three years.
Next, a button down shirt I've worn, very rarely, as I could never actually button it down.
Success was achieved.
I could button it AND sit down in it without straining the buttons to the point where, if they had popped off, they would have hit someone with such force they would have died instantly.
Finally, the piece de resistance, my orange pants.
I LOVE my orange pants.
They're at least ten years old and have weathered more weight gain and loss than probably any other article of clothing in my closet.
I don't know what kind of material they are, except that they are definitely NOT polyester.
Even I have standards.
Some sort of cotton with an almost liner-like feel to the inside of them.
The point: Stephen and the kids despise these pants.
And when I pulled them out Sunday morning, tried them on, noted that they fit, and yelled "Eureka!" no one other than me was pleased.
Too bad.
So sad.
Sucks to be you.
Because me and my orange pants are together again.
For now.
Eventually they will become to big for me.
That's okay though.
There's a tailor in the mall.
I'll get them properly sized.
Because nothing comes between me and my orange pants.
Nothing.
Among all of the Saturday errands was the requisite returning-of-the-bras-for-my-mother-because-the-cups-"puckered."
My mum received a Pennington's gift card for Christmas.
As soon as she saw it, she handed it to me and requested two new bras.
Knowing that because it was winter, and thus I would fly alone on this mission, I set out to Pennington's one afternoon knowing full well that I would not find what she wanted, I would try to locate an appropriate substitute, said substitute would not be acceptable and I would then make another trip to Pennington's to return the substitute.
Apparently, substitutions are not welcome.
I knew this in the back of my mind, but I was so hoping she wouldn't notice.
Not because I'm a rotten child who resents bra shopping for my mother.
I genuinely don't resent doing anything for my mother.
Not after everything she's done for me.
I was hoping she wouldn't notice because Pennington's is no longer carrying her bra size.
It's the smallest they've ever carried.
60 HHH
Lots of those.
But no Mum's size.
They did, however, have sort-of-Mum's-size.
Good around the middle.
One cup size larger.
Of course she noticed the first time she put them on.
And when I went for my usual Saturday evening visit, sitting on her bed, she looked at me and I knew that I'd been caught.
Mum: Those bras are too big.
Me: Really?
Mum: Yes. When I put it on after my bath, it puckered (here).
Me: Really?
At that point it was either come clean or continue feigning my disbelief.
I chose the former.
Explained to her how come I had picked the next cup size.
That they almost never order in her size.
And I was trying to ensure she could use her gift card and not have to spend her own money.
I then suggested that she stuff them with Kleenex.
Just to fill them out a bit and prevent the puckering.
Apparently, bra stuffing is reserved for the 12-13 year old set.
Not those on their way to 72.
Me and the bras got back into the car, and for a week I hung them in the hall closet by the front door so I wouldn't forget to return them.
Keith and Stephen found it most disturbing to look at bras each time they had to don their coats and boots.
So Saturday, when Stephen was laying out our errand-running agenda, I figured I may as well return the bras and see if there wasn't a Mum sized bra hiding amid the larger sizes.
As soon as I walked into the store the employee who sold me the bras said,
Store Employee; "Bras didn't fit, eh."
Me: Of course they didn't.
SE: What size does she need again?
Me: (this size)
SE: (scrunching up her face) Ohhh, I don't know. I'll have to look.
Other Store Employee: Look for what?
SE: (This size) bra.
OSE: Ohhhhh. . .I'll help you look.
Two employees went on a hunt more strenuous than that for the Red October.
Even though they looked through every. single. bra. in the store and in the back, they came up empty handed.
And what did I do while they were searching for a Mum sized bra?
Looked around.
What else would I do?
My pants are too big.
Okay, some of my pants are too big.
Baggy.
I look like I'm trying to emulate those boys who wear oversized pants with their underwear showing.
On purpose.
Harbouring the mis-assumption that the world is interested in what their underwear looks like.
But I'm not in the market for new pants.
Or new anything really.
There's no point.
It won't fit in a few weeks and I'll have a wardrobe full of new clothes I can't wear.
However, not buying does not prevent trying things on.
I did.
I fit into a pant size I have been able to fit into for a long time.
There were even zippers and buttons.
Not just elastic waistbands.
These were a very nice pair of pants.
I wanted to buy them.
$50.00.
No, my brain said.
This is a waste of money.
And thus the very nice pair of pants was returned to the rack.
Feeling that such an act of levelheadedness deserved reward, though, I did find a shirt.
Or rather Stephen did.
For some reason, along with high heeled shoes, Stephen wants me to wear things with sequins.
Um, no.
The idea of standing in front of a class flashing like a disco ball isn't my idea of a good time.
So when he pointed out a shirt, I was somewhat skeptical.
It did have a geegaw on the front of it.
A silverish square thing that drew the shirt in just below my boobs before it flowed out over my ever shrinking girth.
I'm not a geegaw kind of girl.
However, the man was in Pennington's with me, instead of Canadian Tire so the least I could do is try on the shirt he thought would be nice.
And he was right.
It did look nice.
So I bought it.
And in true Stephen fashion, in a store full of clothes marked down 50% or more, he selected one of the few items that was full price.
Because he is Stephen.
Stephen's parents have been singing in their church choir for a long time.
His Mum: 60 years.
His Dad: 20 years.
His Aunt Irene: not quite sure.
And in the choir are several of their friends.
People who came to our wedding.
So imagine my pleasure when Stephen informed me that someone had videotaped their Christmas performance AND put it on YouTube.
Not only the beauty of the church by the gloriousness of the choir.
Stephen's Mum is second from the right, his Aunt Irene, the third.
His dad: the only man in the back wearing a black jacket.
Enjoy!
Title Lyric: Stupid Girl by Pink
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