I keep losing track of what day it is. That's getting annoying.
It is Wednesday. I know that because I looked at the calendar. Today I went to the office with the kids (always an adventure) to pay BJ's quarterly taxes (a month late - whoops! It would be nice if quarterly taxes were due, you know, quarterly) and catch a few things up. I'm going to take them to the drop off program at the church tomorrow so I can spend a couple more hours there. Lucky me!
Then we went shopping. I would've found a bunch of great stuff if I were a 300 pound black woman. I need to have a very serious talk with the people who make clothing for women. It'll go something like this:
Not everyone who weighs more than 150 pounds can pull off leopard print. In fact, I think it would be good for all of us if you stepped away from the prints altogether. And while you're at it, can we please refrain from anything involving stripes? And polka dots? Seriously - I found a red top with two inch white polka dots that would look extremely cute - on Minnie Mouse! Can't we make cute, conservative clothes for those of us who weren't blessed with a love of exercise or a metabolism, and happen to be under 60 years old? Because I'll tell you what, if you don't start making cute clothes for women my age who look like me, then we're all going to start walking around naked, and none of us want that. I'm putting you on notice. If next summer's clothes don't meet my very simple requirements, I'm going to show up at your headquarters wearing nothing but a smile. Capiche?
Shopping makes me want to eat. Fortunately it's too hot and humid to even think about baking anything, or I'd be 12 cookies closer to the next size up.
I hate it when I get in this mood. I do NOT want to pass this on to my kids. I did find a few cute things for MG, which is good, because she's outgrown all of her summer clothes. The kid is solidly into 5s, approaching 6s. She's so tall.
That's the problem - I'm not overweight, I'm undertall.
A lot of the BlogHer girls are writing confessional posts about all their foibles so that we won't be surprised when we meet them and they aren't practically perfect in every way. I'm not planning on telling anyone that I snore like a lumberjack, or that I sweat like my dad, or that I can't hold my liquor until it's too late. I don't want them to find another roommate and make me sleep in the lobby fountain (although that would be convenient, because I wouldn't have to take the time to shower in the morning if I slept in a fountain... This idea has possibilities). The more I think about it, the more it feels like the Sheraton is going to turn into a college dorm in a week (a week! GAH!).
I did not love the dorm. I never really fit in with the other 7 Amys on my floor. Maybe they hated me for snoring. I don't know, but I'm getting that nervous dread thing... I'm about ready to sell my ticket to the highest bidder and stay home with my head under the pillow, sobbing.
It's because I went shopping. To hell with TJ Maxx. I am not going to let them ruin my fun. I can't possibly be the only person attending BlogHer who is a size 18.
There, that's my confession. I'm a size 18. Sometimes a 20. Sometimes a 16, but only because women's clothes sizes are so stupid.
I went to a PiYo class with Casey the other night and before the class I was complaining (to Casey) about a Facebook discussion I'd gotten into about breastfeeding. I told her I was going to write a breastfeeding book for people who aren't militant. Some random woman in front of me said something like, "They say that breastfeeding helps you lose your baby weight." "Oh REALLY?" I said, holding my arms out wide so she could see the exact size of my body, "Because I nursed my oldest for 28 months, two kids simultaneously for 9 months, and my youngest for a total of 22 months. I must have been doing it wrong!" She didn't say anything else.
I should have knocked her over when she was doing her sun salutations. I could've taken her. And knocking someone over might make me feel better.
I need a drink.