Day 353 — Packing for a quick business trip to Tennessee. One nighters make it super easy. Except when you are still too fat for you skinny clothes and too small for your fat clothes. Arghhhhhhhh!
I refuse. REFUSE! To spend money on new clothes. I will probably end up looking like a homeless person but hopefully our client won’t care. I’ll wear my good jewelry! Loads of mascara!! Great shoes!!! Yeah! That’s the ticket! That is the calculus I’d use when faced with trying to dress my heavier body. It was such a bummer. Kinda sad if I say so myself. I’m learning I’ve got to embrace whatever I’m wearing and choose to rock it!
Dressing myself yesterday, I threw on a top that swung! I used to fill it out more. But I hadn’t worn it in a while and none of it shockingly touched my body from my boobs down. It actually had some “swing” to it and didn’t hug my butt! Unheard of before. I remarked to my husband, “Wow, I have room in this shirt!” His usual response? “Yes, Your Most Royal Honeyness!” Gotta love him. He’s just trying to survive.
Our Sunday mornings are always spent with family. A legacy of my late Mother-in-law who’s dying wish was that we remain getting together in her absence. Tragic in so many ways I can’t even mention. But we are happy to oblige. I always catch myself smiling during these typically ridiculous brunches. We’re definitely always the loudest people in the restaurant. Hands gesticulating wildly, politics, who “we” are dating (since they need to be worthy of attending this brunch or standing Friday night dinner!)…nothing is off limits. Personal boundaries are precarious at best and crossed at will. Mostly at someone else’s expense. But good natured…typically.
It is at these brunches I have seen my Father-in-law laugh so hard he can hardly catch his breath. It is fantastic. I think she knew we’d rough him up and keep his spirits there too.
So even when he’s out of town, like he is this weekend, we are still getting together. Sundays are important. Almost as important as Friday nights. Which will reconvene as soon as we get our kitchen back. Don’t ask.
(P.S. my coach, Bill Cortright says I need to write about my kitchen debacle. I simply can’t…yet. He laughs out loud when he imagines the blood bath purging of those emotions. LOL or not so LOL or at least I’m trying to LOL — FML is more like it.)
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