The Weight Watchers thing is going ok. The first few days I was ravenously hungry and maybe just a little bit cranky and, embarrassingly, spent several hours salivating wildly over the most ridiculous things, like tall cold glasses of milk and warm flour tortillas and spoonfuls of mayonnaise. And at first, it seemed quite odd that I barely gave half a thought to the headless chocolate Easter bunny lingering inside the pantry. The dark chocolate bunny who should have been taunting me with his delicious dark chocolate bunny feet and his scrumptious little fluffy dark chocolate tail.
But then I realized that when I joined this program and committed myself to losing some weight, I already knew in the back of my mind that I would have to give up things like chocolate and ice cream and candy, at least in the quantities that I had previously been consuming them. (And donuts and Coke and enormous restaurant packets of Caesar dressing and cheese and Ritz crackers and did you know I could go on and on like this for a very very long time?) I mean, all those things are bad for you—little nutritional value and empty calories and made entirely out of sugar and whatnot and I already KNEW all that.
What I never took into consideration is how much the little things can add up. An extra tablespoon of mayonnaise on a sandwich. An additional half pat of butter on my toast in the morning. Another Coke in the afternoon while reading on the deck during Asher’s (ultimately, very short) nap. Another slice or two of pizza, “because I’ve been good all week.” When, in reality, I hadn’t been good at all, it’s just that I didn’t know I hadn’t been being good.
It has been very eye-opening for me, even in as little as two weeks. I realize, too, that I’m in active weight loss mode, meaning that my calories are even more restricted than they would be if I were just trying to maintain a certain weight. I’m just so… surprised at the amount of food I am eating. It seems like so little, which just goes to show me that whatever I was doing before was so ridiculously off the mark.
So, in short: I am really liking WW and I am learning a lot. And I’m about two pounds away from my pre-pregnancy weight, although I’m definitely not planning on stopping there. I have big plans for that summer dress.
(Side note: Jonniker and Lori also wrote posts this week concerning personal weight loss and I thought they were both brilliantly done. Jonniker said what I wanted to say in my last post about this subject, but she did it so much better, and Lori? Well, you all already know how I feel about Lori. How I feel is VERY STRONGLY.)
P.S. Guess who suddenly started sleeping through the night?
Kids these days have it so good.
I can't believe I'm saying that, mostly because I remember, as a teenager, swearing that I would never tell my children one of those annoying "when I was your age" stories my parents and grandparents used to tell us. When they were my age, they walked to school barefoot through six feet of snow, uphill both ways. When they were my age, they managed to survive without the convenience of disposable diapers or fast food or plumbing. And when they were my age, the television set only got three fuzzy channels, and those channels? Were in BLACK AND WHITE.
I admit the last one is awfully horrifying to think about. Thank you God, for color television, for without color television there would be no such thing as HGTV and my life would be so different. And by "different" I mean EMPTY. And also NOT WORTH LIVING.
In a few years, Asher is going to want some kind of newfangled music contraption that he will use to listen to horrible ear-splitting angsty teenage music at the dinner table and I will no doubt have to sit him down and tell him about my own personal experience as a teenager and how I did not have access to the kind of technology that would allow me to listen to whatever I wanted WHENEVER I wanted because back in my day we had to make these things called Mix Tapes. And with Mix Tapes, you couldn’t just skip to whatever song you wanted to listen to! You had to FAST FORWARD! Or REWIND! And sometimes that took as long as FORTY-FIVE SECONDS, even though it felt like a lot longer! And sometimes? You rewound TOO FAR, and then you either had to listen to the end of another song before the song you wanted began, or fast forward a little bit more, which sometimes meant you’d skip right through the entire beginning of the song! And we couldn’t download ANYTHING! We had to buy cassette SINGLES if we just wanted one song! YES! I KNOW! It was terribly annoying, Asher! Now take those earphones out and eat your pork chops even though I’m sure I have overcooked them just like I did in the year 2007.
I was still making mix tapes in COLLEGE. Perhaps the technology just wasn’t mainstream then? I don’t actually know. I do remember that the summer after I graduated, my parents bought me a brand-new iMac and more than anything, I was excited to be able to burn CDs. It was like the future had come directly to my own personal living room! And although I was kind of dating Dave at the time, it became my first true love. Meaning that the computer and I spent way too much intimate, late-night time together. And sometimes I wore a very skimpy outfit while we were together. AND NO BRA.
Also you should know that the thing with Dave was long-distance, so you know, love the one you’re with and all.
I still firmly believe in the power of the mix CD. I have an iPod, but I just don’t use it like I should. I do use it on the occasions that I go out running by myself, which lately is never. The reason I don’t take it with me in my car or use it in the house is because there are just too many options. Immediate access to thousands upon thousands of my favorite songs makes me a little skip happy. I get right to the middle of one song and that reminds me of another song I want to hear so I get up and search for it and then I start playing it and before you know it, I’ve heard about 15 seconds each of 84 different songs and I’m driving myself bonkers.
CDs limit my choices. Access to maybe 150 songs in the car as opposed to thousands? Reduces my high-speed collision potential by many many percentage points. Perhaps 15, even.
Every year around this time I start listening to music again. It's not that I don't listen to music during the winter, it's just that there's something about springtime and good weather and driving with the windows down that makes me want to crank up something upbeat. Unfortunately, I am no longer cool and I do not have the patience to devote time and energy to discovering new music like I once did. Sometimes I will discover a new song and I will tell my friends about it and then they will groan and roll their eyes and tell me how it has been out for EIGHT ENTIRE MONTHS and would it kill me to turn on MTV once in a while and GET WITH IT?
Confidential to Stacie: I AM TALKING TO YOU. I do know who Gnarls Barkley is now, though. Aren’t you proud? I saw him on Conan. And then, what do you know? He was on the Grammys!
Here’s the thing: I would like some new music. Some new, upbeat music that I can download and then burn onto a CD to listen to in the car while I’m driving around. And it doesn’t even have to be NEW music! You can be a dork like me and spend most of your time punishing your eardrums with yet another Dave Matthews CD that sounds just like the last one he put out, GOOD LORD why do I continue to do that?!
If you want to participate, post five upbeat songs that you love listening to right now in the comments section. Old, new, short, long, obscure, ridiculous, unintelligible, I don’t care, as long as you love them and you could listen to them REPEATEDLY. I will be sifting through them and listening to samples online and then hopefully burning an awesome set of CDs that will be my soundtrack for summer. I’ll post my playlists here. Asher can’t participate because he refuses to listen to anything but James Taylor these days. And James Taylor puts me to sleep, which raises my car wreck ratio to like a MILLION HUNDRED THOUSAND PERCENT.
So no James Taylor. Surely you understand.
(Also! Weigh-in today! Will let you know how it goes!)
Weight loss recorded today: 2 pounds!
I joined the online Weight Watchers program over the weekend.
I struggled a little when deciding whether or not to blog about it, mainly because I am the rare variety of blogger whose entire network of family and friends is informed of—as well as up to date with—her website. And it’s not that I’m embarrassed or ashamed that I need to lose some weight. Me? Embarrassed? Or afraid to write about something on the Internet? Bah!
I was more afraid that admitting that I wanted to lose weight would convey to others—specifically those I know in real life—that I lack confidence in myself. All my life, I have tried my best to focus on the real me, the me who has a brain and a sense of humor and a heart, rather than just as the body that these things happen to be housed in. And I think for the most part, I have done that successfully and I think other people see that in me.
I also want you to know that I have never EVER asked Dave if something made my butt look big. I am very—and understandably, bizarrely—proud of that.
So I do want to lose a few pounds. But that doesn’t change the fact that I am still a secure, healthy person who is proud of her body and what it can do. I STILL LIKE MYSELF.
The problem is that I just don’t know how to eat properly.
This Weight Watchers thing? You have to eat fruit! And vegetables! And what’s worse? You’re supposed to eat a LOT of them. Like, every day even, instead of cheese or chocolate or waffle fries! And although I am trying my best to comply, the fiber content of my new diet is going to necessitate the immediate hiring of a babysitter just so I can spend a good portion of my day in the bathroom.
The whole process of signing up took about six minutes, five of which were dedicated to me trying to force the website to accept what I thought was an appropriate Personal Weight Goal. Which it completely refused to do. According to Weight Watchers, my weight should fall somewhere within the range of 119 to 144 pounds. And that made me laugh. And I mean REALLY laugh, because I believe that weight range was one I passed through effortlessly between grades six and eight.
The weirdest part is how SERIOUSLY I’m taking it all, especially since I kind of signed up on a whim. I always thought the reason Weight Watchers was so successful for people was because they had to show up at a meeting every week and get weighed in front of a bunch of people and a leader, all of whom would know if they hadn’t lost any weight. Which is like The Scariest Thing in the Entire World besides eating a 7-11 hot dog. I don’t have anyone but myself to be accountable to, but what’s doing it for me is the online tracking system.
I have a terrible weakness for tracking systems.
When Asher was a couple of months old, Whoorl posted this and I signed up immediately. Probably within .003 seconds. And it had this crazy effect on me that I never had anticipated it would: I was pumping more often and for longer amounts of time just so I could record it. I got overly excited when the sleep tracker appeared to show that a nap schedule was emerging. And when Asher woke in the middle of the night, I would get him back down to sleep and THEN I WOULD STOP BY THE COMPUTER (!) AND LOG IN (!!) AND RECORD THE WAKING (!!!). I couldn’t bear to wait for morning because what if I couldn’t remember EXACTLY when he woke up? What if I got it wrong? What if I thought he had been up for 35 minutes and it had really been 37? Then I would NEVER HAVE AN ACCURATE LOG OF HIS ACTIVITIES! And I would have to start ALL OVER AGAIN.
Obviously I had to quit. Things had gotten a leeeeetle out of hand.
This is a bit easier, since I only have to update it when I eat or when I exercise, and since I’m really not snacking anymore (I know I’m not because there’s still an unopened box of Ritz crackers in the cabinet and an entire delicious block of sharp white cheddar cheese in the refrigerator), that’s only like four times a day. But I am still trying to do it perfectly and honestly, as is my nature, and therefore will probably be crushed to learn that I haven’t lost 15 pounds, even after an entire WEEK of being an A+ Weight Watchers participant.
I am determined to be successful at this. And when I am? I will totally take you with me shopping for a new dress for the weddings I am going to this summer. Won’t that be fun?
And now! A photo of terrible parental negligence!
WHO STUCK ALL THAT HAIR ON MY KID’S FACE?
Who knew sitting up could be SO FREAKING CUTE?
And also also?
Elvis is in the building, but no peanut butter and banana sandwiches until he's at least two years old.
And Asher would please like Mommy to shut up already, this website has enough mindless drivel.
I don't care if Asher wakes up six thousand four hundred and twelve times tonight. I don't care if it takes hours of rocking or six bottles of warm milk or James Taylor's Greatest Hits on continuous repeat to help him fall back asleep.
I will not get frustrated. I will not get angry. I will not get annoyed. And I absolutely will not take his living, breathing being for granted. Not tonight, anyway.
Not when there are 33 families out there who will never get to see or hold their babies again.
Please pray for the victims and their families at Virginia Tech.
Asher had his six-month well-baby checkup this morning, and as my mom and I walked out the office, I was struck by how much my attitude towards these appointments has changed. At times I think my perspective has changed as much as—if not more than—how Asher himself has changed. And Asher has changed A LOT. About 12 pounds worth, if you must know.
Those appointments used to be so nerve wracking. Were we doing everything right? Was Asher growing correctly? Was he meeting the appropriate development milestones? Would I be able to ask all 33 questions I had written down to discuss with the doctor or would they impose a limit on my time in the exam room? Everything the doctors and nurses told us I took as unwavering truth at the beginning. I read the little booklet they gave us upon our discharge from the hospital from cover to cover, following their instructions for infant care to the letter.
Today the only helpful piece of information I left the office with was the news that Asher is perfectly healthy.
During the examination, the nurse asked me how Asher was sleeping. I answered very honestly that he was doing a lot better, but that he was waking up once a night and that we were feeding him. “Oh,” she said. “Well, just don’t feed him.”
I don’t know how that piece of advice would have affected me if I was still the me I was when Asher was only a few weeks old. The me who was nervous and bumbling and absolutely terrified of messing something up—or even worse, of blazing my very own Parenthood Trail by following my own instincts to take care of my child instead of the advice I found via a book or medical website or a doctor.
I can tell you that today, though? Today I just plain ignored her. Because I’m going to feed my kid when he’s hungry even if every textbook and doctor in the whole entire world says that if he’s over twelve pounds and six months old that he should be sleeping 12 straight hours a night. I find it so bizarre that someone who must see as many babies a week as the employees in our pediatric practice do would lump them all together like that. Wouldn’t you think the more babies you see, the more you would recognize that every kid moves along at their own individual pace? Even the little handout they give me at each well-baby visit lists things like “Baby may be able to sit upright unassisted,” or “Baby may begin to imitate sounds he/she hears you make.” In other words: Just because some kids do it at two/four/six months DOESN’T MEAN YOURS HAS TO.
I guess sleep is the only exception? There was no “well, for some babies it takes longer before they sleep through,” or “if he’s very active and he doesn’t get enough food during the day, he’s going to be hungry at night.” Nope. Just “don’t feed him.” Genius, really. And so incredibly helpful. EYE ROLL EYE ROLL EYE ROLL.
A different nurse came in to administer his vaccinations and I took issue with her, too. Apparently the office was short on nurses that day, so they asked her to do vaccinations even though she’s normally one of the practice’s lactation consultants. When she mentioned this to me, I told her that I had found the lactation program within the practice to be very helpful when I was having trouble with Asher in the early days.
“I’m glad,” she said. “This practice is one of the only ones in the area that offer lactation consultation.”
“It was nice for me to be able to come here and just pay a co-pay since private consultations can get so expensive,” I told her.
Unfortunately, this was WRONG.
“It’s not actually expensive like people think it is,” she snapped at me. And then she went on to tell me she only charged $184, and that was for TWO FULL HOURS of consultation and then down the road if you were having trouble again, you could come back and see her FOR FREE. Whoooooeeeee! What a bargain! And such a pleasant disposition to go with it!
“People simply cannot use the excuse that lactation consultation is too expensive to keep them from breastfeeding,” she continued in what I perceived as a rather snotty manner. And then she confirmed that it was a snotty manner because she followed that gem up with:
“I walk around Costco looking at all the crap people buy; all the money they spend on TVs and CDs and video games all loaded up in their carts… don’t tell me people can’t afford a lactation visit.”
So! Judgmental much, Lactation Lady? Or is business just really in the toilet? She got over herself long enough to explain the oral vaccination she was about to administer to Asher: “This is going to be really salty. Some babies like it and others don’t.”
I decided to make a joke. Sometimes I can be funny! And sometimes that helps distract from all the hatred! Of the Costco-non-lactation-visiting people who would rather have a plasma screen than functioning teats!
“Oh, he’ll probably like it,” I said, “because he happens to have a mother who LOOOOVES French fries.”
“Oh! You SHOULD NOT be eating French fries!” she scolded me harshly. Like I had just announced that I would be eating French fries—and ONLY French fries—until I turned 60. Like I had no concept of the term “moderation.” LIKE I NEEDED TO BE SCOLDED BY A LACTATION CONSULTANT ABOUT THE EVILS OF LARDY FRIED FOOD.
Completely insulting. I tried to tune her out completely at that point but she was going on and on about never letting her grandkids eat fries and how fry-eating has been linked to breast cancer and something about baking fries as an alternative (which, WHAT?!) and I kid you not I was actually very relieved when Asher started screaming because she was poking needles into his thighs. The conversation was a thousand times more painful than vaccinations. I know this because Asher only screamed for about three minutes but I continued hating and seething about the Lactation Lady for several more hours. I am maybe still hating her a little bit right now even! Ha!
Height: 26.5 inches (50%)
Weight: 17 pounds, 13 ounces (50%)
Amount I am annoyed with the entire medical profession: GRRRRRRRR.
The only truly reliable way to shut Asher up when he's tired or cranky or just in a terrible mood is to strap him into the jogging stroller and take him outside. We have been walking about three miles a day for the last six weeks and he has yet to make any kind of noise that communicates that he is experiencing the slightest displeasure or discomfort. Even when we're sweating it out in 80 degree weather or freezing our faces off when the mercury dips below 40. Even when we go over a big bump and his little head cracks violently against the hard side of the stroller. Even when I have bagged a big steamy pile of Hambone's poop and stored it in the basket under the seat and we both practically gag on the smell the whole way to the next trash can.
Does this mean he's going to aspire to be an Eagle Scout or something? Because I'll tell you, I briefly dated an Eagle Scout once and it was so not good. It was so totally not good that this particular person has probably tainted the World of Scouting for me forever. We even kissed twice, but I am phrasing it just that way ("we kissed") because with only one of those kisses did I actually mean to be involved. The other kiss was a total sneak attack, right when the lights went down at a movie, so although we technically kissed, I was not exactly what you might call a willing participant. This is because I had already kissed him that one other time and found out that he was a really really gross kisser. Not as gross as my very first boyfriend, who kissed much like I imagine a washing machine on the spin cycle would kiss, but still very gross. I believe I equated him to a lizard when describing the experience to my friends. The lips were passable, but the tongue? The tongue was of the rhythmic, darting variety and may I just say: BLECH.
Also, sorry Dad. I know you probably didn't want to know all of that.
I guess its not that I have anything against Eagle Scouts necessarily. I suppose many of you who read this website probably have Eagle Scout husbands or brothers or dads or friends or second cousins thrice removed. And that is ok with me because the last thing I want is to piss any of you off. I simply find it interesting that all that bad kissing somehow meshed with my feelings about the Boy Scouts and soured me on them altogether. Kind of like when your husband wants to name the baby "Robert" and you just can't imagine anything worse because you knew a Robert way back in third grade and not only did he pick his nose and steal your lunch money but he also kicked puppies.
So really, the truth is that I would most likely be very proud of Asher if he decided he wanted to become an Eagle Scout and spent his weekends earning badges and learning how to survive for weeks in the wild with just a piece of twine and chasing every sentence that comes out of his mouth with “Scout’s honor.” But chances are, if he's at all like either of his parents, he'll just dabble in different sports and activities here and there, losing interest in them once his natural abilities no longer carry him through and he has to start practicing or, God forbid, APPLYING HIMSELF to remain competitive. Our family will be proud of our lackadaisical nature; of our slacker tendencies and our two years of Cub Scouts, tops.
I suppose if the Boy Scouts sold cookies I might be able to forget ole Lizard Kisser and would be a lot more passionate about encouraging future involvement, but whatever. I also suppose that a lot of you are thinking that my entire parenting philosophy seems to be, “What’s in it for me?”, but that is totally and completely untrue. I would never EVER use my child as a means to getting things for myself, and here I am specifically speaking to cookies sold by Scouts or Easter candy or plastic eggs containing quarters that were hidden for an Easter egg hunt for toddlers. I would never
confess to doing that do something like that. NEVER.
I hope you all had a wonderful Easter weekend.
When Asher stopped sleeping through the night, I developed some pretty poor sleep habits of my own. He would usually wake sometime around 2 a.m. and although it was relatively easy to settle him back down quickly by just rocking him for a few minutes, it became nearly impossible for me to get back to sleep. My mind raced and I couldn’t get past Dave’s snoring and the covers were either too warm or too cold and there were some nights where I thought I would die—really honestly DIE—from the torture that is lying listlessly in bed while Baby Einstein music loops continuously through one’s head. I would struggle unsuccessfully to get back to sleep at all before Asher woke up again sometime around 4 a.m., which is when he would scream at me if I picked him up out of the crib and didn’t immediately shove a nipple into his mouth. Fifteen minutes later, I’d be back in bed and able to drift off somewhere around 5 a.m. I was always exhausted.
I suppose I could have gone to bed earlier at night—and I did sometimes, like last night—but if there is one thing I find hard to give up, it is those few hours after Asher goes to bed that are My Own Time. I know I spend most of them on the couch with a laptop or American Idol or a giant bowl of ice cream that totally negates that particular day’s exercise routine, but they’re still MINE. There were nights when I was exhausted at 8:30, but stayed up reading until past 11 because it was a pleasure I didn’t have time for during the day and that I just didn’t want to give up. (I can’t believe I waited so long to read this. And while we’re on the subject, I also highly recommend this and this and this.)
I suppose this is just my own long, convoluted way of explaining why I’m blogging at 5 a.m.
Asher has slept through the night for the last three nights. I’ve been getting more sleep this week than I have gotten in almost three straight months and my body DOESN’T KNOW WHAT TO DO, but it knows it can’t sleep anymore.
I also realize that posting this on the Internet guarantees that tomorrow night he’ll be up 47 different times and I’ll have to feed him during each and every one and I’ll be KICKING MYSELF but
* * * * *
Wait, where was I? Before the kid I was just bragging about woke up and screamed until I fed him a bottle at 5:40?
Honestly, I don’t even mind the feedings. If he wakes up hungry, I want to meet that need. And the kid has every reason to be genuinely hungry—the phrase “squirmiest baby I have ever seen” has been uttered to me by MANY DIFFERENT KNOWLEDGEABLE PEOPLE. I sometimes attend a mom’s group that meets at the local YMCA and Asher is always the only kid who is not sitting or lying or nursing quietly or playing with a toy. He’s spinning in circles on his blanket or is shrieking like a crazy person or is rolling onto the carpet or other kids’ blankets to lick them before I can get off my lazy butt to grab him.
And the truth is that I actually like him a lot better in the mornings when he’s had a middle-of-the-night feeding—he babbles and talks in his crib upon awakening instead of summoning me cribside with angry noises. Those are the mornings he doesn’t smile when I approach him—he’s too fixated on eating and eating NOW and he’s probably picturing me in a little butler getup and where is his bottle on a silver serving platter again?
It was the other seemingly pointless wakings that were driving me crazy: was I encouraging his behavior by picking him up and helping him get back to sleep? Was he ever going to learn to fall back asleep on his own? Should I just leave him to cry? Should I deny him food? Is he actually hungry or have we just created a habit?
I don’t know if the last couple of nights are a true new pattern or just another babyhood fluke. But I think I am happy with the way we have handled Asher’s nighttime care over the last few months, and that is by telling myself that this behavior will pass and that he wouldn’t be crying or reaching out to us if he didn’t truly need us for something. So we did whatever it was that we thought he needed. And I am glad we did, because it looks like whatever kind of phase it is is one he will just outgrow on his own.
Also he has pooped himself fully awake after that last bottle which means today’s schedule is already shot to pieces. BUT WHATEVER. I got eight straight hours of sleep. HOO. RAY.
Coming soon: Gratuitous Easter photos that feature Asher’s very first button-down shirt. I cannot wait for Sunday. Also coming soon: Something funny. I swear.
Ok, so the peas were nothing but a total fluke.
Asher has a cold and I know this for sure because I have been sucking snot out of his nose for an entire week now. He doesn’t seem to enjoy it very much and honestly, I’m not sure why I keep doing it because it really doesn’t seem to make the least bit of difference. I suck and I suck and I suck and then I empty out the aspirator bulb about sixteen times and then when I decide I’ve been successful I sit him upright and he takes a big breath and his nose sounds exactly the same way as it did before I started. So that’s been really fun.
And despite some poor naps on Saturday, he was a pretty decent guest at the shower. Which really just means he didn’t scream at anyone. Because that’s his new thing: Being Afraid of People. And when he’s afraid of someone? You don’t want to be within a five-mile radius or your eardrums will explode. It’s THAT LOUD. And we’re not talking about letting people he’s never met before hold him. No, these days he’s particularly sensitive to how anyone looks at him. You’ll be running for cover if you do it wrong—that little bottom lip puckers and then he stiffens up and closes his eyes and lets everyone around you know JUST WHAT YOU DID.
It’s very cute, actually. It’s one of those things that I always hated seeing other kids do—something pre-motherhood that I probably would have rolled my eyes at, especially if I’d seen it in public—but suddenly it’s my kid and I’m finding that those ear-splitting screams aren’t really annoying at all. In fact, they’re rather endearing.
Also endearing as of late is Asher’s new fascination with the animal kingdom. Most specifically, dogs. Hambone is uproariously funny these days (although I don’t think he knows it) and yesterday while paying a visit to my brother and sister-in-law, Asher cracked up for a full half hour while watching the antics of their little terrier. I don’t know when he started really noticing the world that exists beyond his familiar little family, but it is exciting. As much as I enjoy him being a baby, I do look forward to a time when there will be more intellectual interaction between us. I know I shouldn’t wish it too much because it will be here before I know it, but I’m betting its really awesome to do something like take your kid to the zoo for the first time and have them really understand what it is they’re looking at. Right now I’m just trying to get Asher to look at the pages of a book without seeing them as chew toys.
And now I have to confess to you that I was unable to wear your outfit of choice (which would have been Outfit Number Two) to the shower on Saturday. The weatherman changed the forecast at the very last minute (without apologizing, either—why do weathermen never apologize for getting it wrong?) and instead of the balmy 67 degrees he had predicted, it was made very clear to me that the high would top out somewhere around 57. So I wore a sweater. A boring, robin’s egg blue sweater with a pair of brown pants and very unfun brown boots. Bah.
But thank you for your participation. And thank you for the nice comments on my wardrobe, although I need you to understand that those three little outfits were probably the most attractive things I own that fit relatively well. Which means that’s not saying much for the majority of my clothing because no one seemed to think Outfit Number Three was worth their time. In all honesty I only threw it into the pile because it seemed like more fun to have three options rather than two, but still.
I do have to tell you that last year when I was packing up summer clothes to be stored in the attic, I made a deal with Dave that if he would allow me the liberty of donating some of his older, uglier clothes that he never wore to charity, that I would allow him to do the same for me. He picked out only two items; items that he claimed to “hate hate hate” and that ultimately resulted in me calling off the deal altogether.
That cute patterned coral shirt was one of them.
I know. But my religious beliefs permit divorce only for matters of adultery.