Oy, it never ends. I’ve called it “The Bane of Motherhood.” It’s always with me. It never leaves, I wake up to it. I go to bed with it. I fume over it, I fight with it, I accept it (tentatively), and I ignore it. I’ve blogged about it. Blogged, people. Blogged. Which means everyone who has access to a computer knows my favorite tricky black pants that are just that—tricky.
“It” is my weight. I’m resigned to the fact that since my hips have expanded in ways only meant for baby-carrying, I will always be struggling with my weight. Fine. However, will I ever (EVER) stop living in the glory days of skinny thighs? I write this post not so much to vent about my buxom, voluptuous, curvy ... ok, OVERWEIGHT bod. No, I’m writing it to yell at my family members.
My grandmother, whom I love desperately, who is a very young seventy-something and still wears cute shoes and chunky accessories, found a shirt the other day she thought I would like. It was cute, I suppose. Black and white and had a funky pattern.
Except folded, I initially thought it was a blanket for my infant son.
And it was big enough to sleep in. Not to wear to sleep, but to sleep in. As in a tent.
Mouth slightly agape, I stared at her. “Uh, I think this might be too big.”
“Well, just try it on!” She exclaimed, clucking at me.
“No way.” I refused. And much like a three-year-old, I glared at her. She glared back.
Does she really think I’m that big? And if so, we have a serious problem on our plates. There’s being plump, and then there’s getting clothing from an awning surplus supply store. Time to get out my running shoes.
Forget the running shoes. I need a new world-shoes.
