Monday, July 25, 2005

Kicking my ass into gear

Georgie

It's time to get myself moving. To pick up the pace of this weight loss a bit. Oh sure, I can rest on the laurels of having lost 42 pounds, but it has taken a year and half. I could go a little faster. Maybe try a little harder.

Last fall I needed some new bras. And since I had lost weight, I knew that I needed a smaller size. So I found a website that told me all about how to measure myself. And I did. And wow! 38C! C! C! I hadn't been a C cup since sometime around the time that I married George (and come August 6th, that will be 11 years).

I was so excited about my new size. I mean, I knew I'd lost weight, and I could tell that my bras had gotten big, but man. A C cup! That was so completely beyond anything I'd hoped for. Naturally, I ordered as many 38C bras as I could find. I found lace bras: one pink, one blue, and one white. I found a black bra (I've never had a black bra before). And a couple of utilitarian bras that also happened to be quite beautiful. I've been wearing ultra-sensible grandma-looking things for the last decade... I wanted beautiful lingerie now that I was down to a size where I'd fit into it.

Days passed. And finally my beautiful brassieres arrived. Oh... they were so wonderful. So delicate and intricately detailed. And with lace. And color. And they were pretty. I could not wait to try these delicate beauties on. And then it happened.

One after the other. They didn't fit. It wasn't even close. Oh, I was a 38 alright, but I was nowhere near a C. I went back to the website, and I followed the directions again. I measured again and again. It had to be wrong. According to it I should be a C. But no. According to the very real, very beautiful collection of bras staring at me from my bed, I was not.

So I thought I'd just hang on to them. Because, after all, I'm losing weight, and in fifteen pounds, or so, they'll fit. Of course, I have been taking a long time to lose weight so it has been a long time and I'm just now down fifteen pounds. But no. Not yet. It's closer, though.

That's why I've decided it's time to do something. I'm going to do Oprah's Boot Camp. Now I don't usually fall for fads (maybe I do usually fall for fads and I'm just in denial), but I like that this is exercise-based. It's basically kicking your own ass into shape.

I'm feeling pretty tough these days, so I think I can do it. And I guess my announcing it here is like my commitment to it. So now I can't slack off. So feel free to shoot me an email and ask me how boot camp is going.

You'll know when those bras fit. I might even take pictures.

Wednesday, July 13, 2005

Don't make me do it, because I will if I have to

Georgie

Tonight I came face to face with an ethical dilemma and I think I might have lost. I'm just not sure.

I had to make a trip to the store, because that's the exciting stuff of my life, don't you know? And when I parked my car (as I do nearly everytime I park anywhere), I parked perfectly centered in the space so that I would have plenty of room on either side of the car. I always do this because I'm a freak about this sort of thing. I even make poor George do it sometimes, too. Sorry, George. But it just makes me feel better to have the car in the center of the space. Ahh, even thinking about a centered car is pleasing. (Thinking about an uncentered car is decidedly UNpleasing.)

So when I went into the store there was nobody parked on either side of my perfectly-placed car (which is just ideal, isn't it?). When I came out of the store, however, some complete slaghead had parked with the same concern I see in my two-year old's toothbrushing. Not only was he nowhere close to centered in his own space (a fault for which he should really lose points on his license, because really, how hard is that?), but he was so far from centered that he was across the line and parked in MY SPACE.

He was so close to my car on the driver's side (of course) that I had to shimmy to get to the door. Well. Herein lies the dilemma. How the hell do I open the door WITHOUT scratching his car? When it boiled right down to it... I couldn't. I just could not be done. I was faced with having to stand at my car and wait for some person to finish their shopping so that I could get in my car OR scratch their car.

I probably stood and pondered the predicament for a good fifteen seconds (which is a long time at night in a parking lot). Then I noticed something interesting: a series of dings and scratches all up and down this otherwise nice car. Perhaps this is a serial slaghead? Hard to feel too guilty when there's evidence that this happens a lot.

So I did it. I opened my door. Maybe a bit harder than I should have. And I shimmied into my car feeling a little bit of guilt but more than that, feeling a small sense of revenge.

Wednesday, July 06, 2005

The King of Fun and the Queen of Everything

Georgie

I'm taking a class this summer. In it I've met this gregarious lady whom I really like. I have actually met her before (when I took this same class before) and I liked her then, too.

She's a bit older than I am. In fact she has children who are around my age and a grandchild close to my kids' ages. But she's just a neat lady. She kind of tells it like it is. She's a bit overweight, but wouldn't think to diet. "They still make clothes that fit me, don't they?" she says without even a hint of irony.

And unflappable. Why today, in the middle of her presentation someone's cell phone rang and rang AND RANG. Joyce just said, "You better answer." The girl was mortified and announced to the class (in a most crass and uncouth manner) "I'm on her crap-list!" Joyce didn't lose a beat and just said, "Do I look bothered?" And she wasn't. Not a bit. Her voice never wavered. Not during the ringing, or the continued ringing, nor during the ridiculous comment.

I would have faked a smile and tried to be pleasant. But Joyce never changed her facial expression. Just looked at her with the exact same expression and spoke to her with the exact same voice. I would have used my fake higher, I'm-trying-to-be-pleasant voice.

And Joyce is fun. She's always laughing. Everything around her is lighthearted and deliberately lacking in seriousness. In fact, her husband has dubbed himself "The King of Fun" and she is "The Queen of Everything." Even their nicknames are fun.

They have a boat (that they really use). And "The King of Fun" is painted on their boat. The King and Queen have friends and family and do a lot of entertaining.

It gets me to thinking. We are not fun. We are decidedly un-fun. George and I are so serious. George is more fun than I am. But I don't even know how to have fun. I really don't.

I've been thinking about this alot over the last couple of days. In any given situation, I can think of at least three ways to completely suck the fun out of the room. But I can think of no way in which to add to the fun. I can think of no way to have merriment.

Is there a gene that I am missing? Was there socialization that I missed out on? What the hell went wrong with me?

I think I want to have fun. I think I do. But it really is easier at this point to maintain status quo. It's hard to change lifelong habits. How would I even go about becoming more fun? It's not like there's a fun school I could go to to learn to have fun in six short weeks.

I guess I just need to take each opportunity as it presents itself and actually make the attempt to be fun. But first I have to figure out what the hell fun is.

I'll let you know if I do.