I’ve dreaded this day for a long while, but I can no longer ignore the inevitable.
It is time.
You would think from my tone of reluctance and dread that I’m referring to my upcoming divorce proceedings.
I have to buy new jeans.
I’m not one of those people who turns into a quivery mass of anticipation at the thought of a shopping excursion. I down right dread clothes and shoe shopping. For me, there is nothing more demoralizing than hunting for wardrobe items that fit. The fashion world abhors the Hour Glass. Experience has taught me time and time again the models’ bodies for clothes are anything but a Figure 8. No surprise since we only make up 8.4% of all women.
My past and present wardrobes consist of stretchy things: dresses, sweaters, t-shirts, lycra tops. Any article of clothing that will give in the bust area. An item like a button-down Oxford shirt? Please… What a pipe dream! Find a shirt that fits through the chest and the shoulders & arms are over-sized. Go for the correct length for the arms, and the dreaded too-tight button bulge appears mid-bust.
The same situation with jeans.
I am CURVY. Like halfway skinny Oprah (not at her thinnest but a nice look on Slide 6 sleeveless black evening dress), I have hips, boobs, and a well-defined waist. Throw in some hearty peasant stock thighs and calves and you start to see why skinny jeans give me a case of fashion frustration. And knee-high boots. I would love to wear knee-high boots. Like these little dumplings. I don’t care if I break my neck walking. I’ll risk it. Drool.
I’m not an Apple, or a Pear, or a shapeless plank built like a teen-aged boy. I am Alexandre Cabanel’s Birth of Venus with double the chest and 1/3 less butt and thigh.
I love Cabanel’s interpretation of Venus’ birth. Oodles more than the Sandro Botticelli version of the event. I find that seashells are a sketchy mode of transportation, prone to tipping if you don’t have the requisite number of cherubs available. (Who knew reading Divorced Moms would result in a discussion of fine art?)
I will be just as naked as Venus if I don’t get some new jeans soon. My old ones are sliding off of me. So much so that the act of unbuttoning is no longer necessary when I get undressed.
Yes, my elliptical is at Death’s Door once again. I’ve worn out the same ball bearing parts as last time along with a new wrinkle – the magnetic resistance is on the fritz. Somehow Level 1 resistance is so stiff that I sometimes have to throw my whole weight on one foot paddle to get it to move. This was all happening prior to the ball bearing breakdown, so it requires more than a slathering of grease.
It is time to put my Birthday Elliptical down.
Not surprising, it’s one of the big gifts that Husband #2 gave me during our time together. A very thoughtful present as I had just moved away from my local YMCA and didn’t have access to a new Y at the time.
Maybe I can sell it for parts. The last time I had repairs done, it ran over $700. I’m looking at that, and more, if I choose to go the fix route. That kind of cash outlay puts me more than halfway to a new elliptical like the Bowflex Max Trainer.
Call in the bugle player. Time to play Taps. I’ll cry and wear black, as is appropriate for the funeral.
And then I’ll pick out a shiny new model. Does anyone have an elliptical they just love? I’m open to suggestions!