I have a secret to share with you.
It will most likely be that nail in the coffin of your perception that I am one hundred percent, certifiably insane.
But that's okay.
I'm telling you because I am pretty certain there are others of you out there who, like me, have some weird, quirky book in which you you keep track of weird shit.
My book contains measurements.
As in, of my body.
I keep track of my waist size, hip size, under my arms, under my bust, etc. I've been doing it for eleven years. I don't know why I started...probably some sort of mail order catalog sizing OCD thing gone hideously awry.
I can tell you that in October of 1999, my waist was exactly ten inches smaller than it is today.
I can tell you that in 2003, I had one entry. I don't know why...perhaps it was a really abysmal year and I just gave up.
In 2006, it went from "Measurements" to "Measurements, Weight and Notes"...telling what I was doing, like "I ran 4 miles today and felt good." "I drank too much wine." "Chris is in Iraq and here are my goals before he comes back."
I fear my kids are going to find this book after I die and will pass it around in horror, shake their heads and say, "Our mother was one sick bitch."
So, obviously, I have issues.
In my twenties, I was neurotic about my issues.
Now, I embrace them.
I discuss them, make fun of them and write about them on the Internet. Surely, there are others like me.
It's like going to the doctor with a nasty, oozing pustule and fretting about showing him because you think he will judge you. Inevitably, last week he saw something far oozier and dealt with something much more horrendous than your puny little pustule. There are others with nastier shit than you. Always, always, always.
Same thing with bathing suits. There is always someone who looks worse in a bathing suit at the beach or pool then you do...so who the frack cares? Take the damn t-shirt or cover up off and just let it hang out.
This is precisely why I like to watch Hoarders. And Intervention. Wow...people mess up their lives something awful.
So, there. I have issues. It's out, in case you didn't know it anyway.
Yesterday morning I was kicked out of my house.
My husband said he did it nicely, but I thought the tone was sort of a "get the hell out of here."
HE thought it was more like, "Hey sweetie! I love you so much, that I will take care of the kids on my day off so you can go off and do whatever you would like," followed by lots of blowing kisses, hugs and "I love you's."
However the tone was, he didn't have to say it twice.
I dashed out the door before he could change his mind and headed to the first thrift store.
Thrift stores always have made me happy. I got away from them for awhile (read: when we were moving and I wasn't allowed to bring more crap home) but now that we are not moving anywhere for a long, long time I can thrift store, garage sale and dumpster dive until my heart is content.
(My husband, if he read that, probably just fainted dead away. He does not approve of any of it. Particularly dumpster diving.)
I arrived at the thrift store at the perfect time. I stood as a chatty elderly woman unloaded a fresh bin of fat girl clothes. "Here's another extra large for you, honey," she said as she handed me another pair of Columbia capris (SCORE).
I almost pissed my pants when I rifled through the bathing suits and found a Lacoste cover up and a Lilly Pulitzer tankini set. The bathing suit was a size eight, but I plan to be a size eight one day and I am in love with Lilly Pulitzer.
I carry a Lilly Pulitzer bag, and when I can fit into her clothes, I plan to wear them, even to bed. I vow to give up thrift storing immediately and only wear Lilly Pulitzer clothes, even if it puts my husband in the poor house.
As I checked out the clerk (another elderly woman) folded the clothes and put them into a bag. "Oh, these are nice," she said, in a New York accent.
"Yes, they are," I said, excitedly.
"Oh...you can't fit into this," she said, holding the bathing suit up.
From this point, I entered into a conversation that would never, ever, ever occur in the Midwest.
"Not right now...but I will someday," I said.
"Are you doing the lap band surgery," she asked.
"No, I'm exercising and watching what I eat. I just had a baby," I said. Like two years ago. But what the heck bees wax is it of hers?
"Are you getting the lap band surgery," another one came up behind me. Apparently lap bands were a source of great interest.
"No, I'm not."
"Oh, my friend just did it and she had to follow a book of instructions this thick," she held her hands apart at about the space of a Stephen King novel. "She lost a lot of weight, though."
"Interesting," I said.
What universe was I in?
"She was about your size when she got it done," she said, looking me up and down. "She brought all of her 2x's over here because they didn't fit any more. She had to buy a whole new wardrobe!"
"Wow," I sort of wanted to slap her.
"Okay...well...have a good day," I said as I slunked out of the store.
I drove over to my friend Beki's house and told her what happened.
"Make me pretty," I said.
Some highlights, hot rollers and nice smelling gel later I had my head between my knees and she was tousling.
"Am I going to look like a prostitute?"
She laughed. "No."
There was a pause. "No."
Maybe a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader," she added.
I headed to Ulta and sprayed perfumes. If I didn't look like a hooker, I smelled like one. I bought some Urban Decay bonus buys.
I headed home after my day to myself.
"Mom," said Wesley. "Why is your hair blond?"
"I had it highlighted. Do you like it?"
"Will it stay that way?"
"It grows out. Do you want me to keep it like this?"
He smiled a little and nodded.
"Do you think it's pretty," I asked.
He nodded again.
After dinner, out of nowhere he looked at me. "I like blond better that dirty blond."
"I'll remember that, Wes."
At least my kids think I'm pretty, even when I don't.
I need to remember that's what is important.