Conspicous Consumption Saves The Day

I was ready to file today under "Sucks The Bag." I had some drama at work around something that somebody else should have paid for but didn't, and now I am expected to pull large sums of money out of my ass. It put me in a foul mood and made me question my career (again) and made me nostalgic for the old days when I had the money and power I felt guilty about having. And it's cold and blah. I just wanted to get home and change into something with an elastic waist and watch Project Runway.

But then I came home and the magical healing powers of shoes helped save the day. Or I should say, the magical healing power of these $275 Charles David beauties on sale on Amazon for $66.

Behold!



You are allowed to question the practicality of a peep-toe eyelet pump in the winter. In Massachusetts. But then I will stab you.

After this, we went to Mr. Crepe for dinner and potato soup and tons more sex-ed questions from the MG. She wanted to know if she had to get married when she grew up, and we told her that she didn't have to -- that you don't need to get married and you don't need to have kids. You can do whatever you want. The "no kids" thing sparked, "and then no penis in the vagina?" "Because you get pregnant when you put a penis in the vagina." We explained that you could still put a penis in the vagina and not get pregnant, which prompted, "kill the baby?" Followed by YG using some amazing hand gestures and trying to demonstrate how a "baggie" on the penis keeps sperm from getting into the vagina. And then we went back to talking Hannah Montana. Good times.

Must Read: The Fantasy of Being Thin

I read this post, The Fantasy of Being Thin, over on Kate Harding's site today, while I was sitting at my desk, eating my lunch at work. I actually cried a little just because the whole post, and the comments, were so spot on. You really should read the whole thing, but I'm cutting and pasting the bit that hit me the hardest.

"Overcoming The Fantasy of Being Thin might be the hardest part of making it all the way into fat acceptance-land. And that might just be why I’d pushed that part of the process out of my memory: it fucking sucked. Because I didn’t just have to accept the size of my thighs; I had to accept who I am, rather than continuing to wait until I magically became the person I’d always imagined being. Ouch.

That is, of course, a pretty normal part of getting older. You start to realize that yeah, this actually is it, and although you can still try enough new things to keep anyone busy for two lifetimes, you’re pretty much stuck with a basic context. There are skills, experiences, and material things you will almost certainly never have, period. It’s a challenge for all of us to understand that accepting this fact of life does not necessarily mean cutting off options or giving up dreams, but simply — as in the proverbial story about the creation of the David — chipping away all that is not you. But for a fat person, it can be even harder, because so many fucking sources encourage us to believe that inside every one of us is “a thin person waiting to get out” — and that thin person is SO MUCH COOLER.

The reality is, I will never be the kind of person who thinks roughing it in Tibet sounds like a hoot; give me a decent hotel in London any day. I will probably never learn to waterski well, or snow ski at all, or do a back handspring. I can be outgoing and charismatic in small doses, but I will always then need time to recharge my batteries with the dogs and a good book; I’ll never be someone with a chock-full social calendar, because I would find that unbearably exhausting. (And no matter how well I’ve learned to fake it — and thus how much this surprises some people who know me — new social situations will most likely always intimidate the crap out of me.) I might learn to speak one foreign language fluently over the course of my life, but probably not five. I will never publish a novel until I finish writing one. I will always have to be aware of my natural tendency toward depression and might always have to medicate it. Smart money says I am never going to chuck city life to buy an alpaca farm or start a new career as a river guide. And my chances of marrying George Clooney are very, very slim.

None of that is because I’m fat. It’s because I’m me.

But when I was invested in The Fantasy of Being Thin, I really believed that changing this one “simple” (ha!) thing would unlock a whole new identity — this totally fabulous, free-spirited, try-anything-once kind of chick who was effortlessly a magnet for interesting people and experiences. "

Sigh. I still believe that someday I am going to be SO FUCKING COOL. Thin and cool, or fat and cool, but cool nonetheless. When I get that [insert whatever it is that I need right now -- job, shoes, weight], I'm going to be so goddamn cool, you're totally going to dye your hair red, buy a pair of green glasses, and Single White Female me.

Back To The Grind and Other Things

Made it back to The People's Republic with little fanfare. Leaving early was the right thing today and gave me enough time to mentally adjust to the fact that I have to work -- FIVE DAYS IN A ROW -- this week.

The long weekend was fantastic. I didn't read enough, write enough, blog enough, do enough, etc. but I think that's what I needed -- a nice weekend of visits and eating and baby gazing and not doing much of anything. I got back to work yesterday and back to my regular workout/running routine today.

Now I have a list of hundreds of things to do in the next month including:

* Christmas shopping
* Registering for classes
* Holiday hoo hah (tree and whatnot)
* Grocery shopping and bill paying and the mundane
* Writing pretentious Christmas letter and making out cards
* Wedding stuff
-- finding florist
-- finishing playlists
-- finishing guest list
-- invitations
-- figuring how to pay for all this

Should be a busy month or so.