So, I have been all kinds of crazy busy lately and have abandoned you guys. I wrote the below post a week ago and couldn't bring myself to hit 'publish,' but seeing that I don't have time to write anything new, you get to read this - you know, if you want. Be warned, random insane tangent appears at the end.
This year, I turn 30. And it seems my birthday present has come early. A solid ten pounds that has settled around my waist, hips and thighs, rendering the bulk of my wardrobe useless.
Rows upon rows of cute pants hang in my closet, torturing me. Mocking me. Morning after morning. I get up and woefully choose between the two pair of slacks and one pair of jeans that don't make my ass look like a sausage stuffing inside a too tight casing. OK, fine, there are technically two other pairs of slacks that fit, but as they are both lined and one pair is tweed, they are not Arkansas summer appropriate, lest I think I can sweat away the weight.
So here I sit, in my brown slacks, hoping nobody notices that these are the pants I wore a mere two days ago.
And I know I'm not 'fat,' by any traditional or non-traditional use of the word, yadda, yadda, yadda. That's not what this is about. It's about all those damn clothes I can't wear anymore! It's about being at this odd crossroad in my life, where I'm still young and learning, but old enough to have my 'professional' career. The place where I want to be for a long time. Where I know it's no longer appropriate to wear tight jeans and babydoll tees, but I also haven't resigned myself to high-waisted, no-shape pants paired with jackets that have shoulder pads.
That middle place where I no longer rely on my cuteness factor to move me along, but I also don't have the experience under my belt to claim that 'what I say goes.' And while I've never been one to put my lady bits on display, I feel the need to make sure that I look professional, but not provocative. Young, but not too young.
Dressing 'age appropriate,' if you will. And yet, doing so is difficult when your body and your wardrobe gang up on you, leaving you feeling helpless and frustrated.
And so, I look around with a shaking finger, eager to point it at anyone, anything to be the blame for what has happened.
Age? Sure. I'm getting older, my body has betrayed me (or maybe it's all those coffees and heavy-cream laden pasta dishes I adore).
My lethargic lifestyle? Well, fine, blame the desk I sit behind and couch I sit upon for all this fluffiness on my backside, what do I care?
Society? YES! Of course, why didn't I think of that first? Society demands that at 30 I be an object of desire (or so I hear) and I'm not living up to it. And really? A size 4? Isn't that plus-size material? Shouldn't I be trying to squeeze back into those two pair of size 0 pants in the back of the closet that I have for some reason refused to get rid of, despite my open and active ebay account?
Ah yes, society. If it weren't for you, teen girls would never know the joy of throwing up their dinner in an attempt to thwart off their ever-expanding hips. They would never have to worry about spending gobs upon gobs of money to glop toxic chemical brews on their faces, covering what semblance of character they already had bestowed upon them in exchange for a face that is more socially acceptable.
Um, yeah. So, what do you blame?