You know, I realized this morning I swear a lot. (Note: this post contains many <bleeps>)
In my head, out loud sometimes, and yes, occasionally, in front of the kids. I swear to alleviate pain when stepping on a random tiny toy, to relieve pressure when I can’t get my coffee mug lid off, and when I am frustrated beyond belief at my husband. I also swear when someone cuts me off in traffic, I break a nail, and I spill my coffee. If I am not careful, someone may, at some point, rename me Ian McShane.
I try not to… Honestly! But it just comes out. They say people who swear a lot are more trustworthy and dependable… If so, I am on par with Mother Theresa. The logic is sound, right?
But this morning I swore heavily. Half under my breath, since I didn’t want to be disruptive. But swear I *&^%ing did, and for good reason. I was standing in front of my locker at the gym, my hair dripping wet, my too small towel grasped in one hand around my middle, and my outstretched hands holding my %^*& jeans in the other.
Holding jeans should not elicit Potty Mouth, you say, but I beg to differ on this. Especially this morning. @#$& yes.
last night, I was exhausted, and packing for the gym the next morning. I get everything ready to go, so all I have to do is stumble to the bathroom, put on workout clothes, blindly grope to the kitchen, wolf down Breakfast #1, and grab my lunch from the fridge. From there, I can ZombieMom walk to the livingroom, put on my outdoor clothes, pick up my backpack, plug in my music, and leave. Make it easy and it will happen, right? This morning was no exception. Walking outside woke me right the *&^% up. Lord love us, but that was a brisk walk to the bus.
So back to last night, as I was blearily putting day clothes into my pack, I grabbed the first pair of jeans off the stack in my drawer. I assumed they were a pair in “rotation” (what, doesn’t everyone have a jean rotation? Only me? Oh… #organizedfreak) and threw them in. No biggie, off we go. Easy-peasy-porkie-pie. (Mmmm… Pie.)
Cue aprés workout.
I pulled the jeans out of the pack, and looked at them. Hmm… I don’t recall my currently fitting jeans having that blue a denim colour. Hmm… I don’t recall my currently fitting jeans having that long a leg. Hmm… Let’s check the label.
“Oh ^&*%ity, %^&$, @#$*!”. <– Exact words, people. What I was staring at were a pair of size 12 Old Navy jeans that are supposed to be living in my “Not yet fitting” storage pile. They somehow made it from the closet into my dresser, to the top of my jeans pile. In all my productivity this weekend, they made that journey across the floor of the bedroom, and likely, in my blind focus to cleanoutallthethings™, I just threw them in.
So here I am naked, showered, and contemplating the fact that I have no *^&%ing pants to wear. I looked at the sodden mess of workout clothes currently on the floor, and felt the ick of putting cold, wet, stinky capris back on. I contemplated that I would be late for work because I would have to wait until the stores in the mall opened and go buy myself a *@$#ing pair of jeans that fits. I contemplated how I can barely afford to do that right now.
I contemplated crying.
Then I contemplated trying them on. Yes, I &^%$ing did. I wiggled into my compression underwear, and stuck a leg bravely in. Then the other. With a silent prayer to the Cellulite Gods, I pulled the &%$#ers up, did the wigglebounce that all women do as they put on jeans. Wigglebounces are mandatory when putting on freshly washed, tight jeans, I think.
Now, bear in mind, the last time I tried these on I could not get them over my MoonHips®. I could not even think about doing them up. I have been in a size 14 pant for many, many months now. I was dubious, and already thinking about where I could pull cash from, and hoping the sale at Old Navy was still on.
I looked down. They were on. Holy @*#%.
I experimentally pulled the edges of the button over towards one another. I prayed some more, and the button met the button hole with a little effort. Then, I did Zipper Yoga™ and slowly, the zipper inched its way up to the top.
Holy Petunia eating a Fudgecicle, they were done up! Size &%$#ing TWELVE. I was euphoric for a moment, realizing that I could actually get the ^%$&ing things on and done up for the first time in a long time. Breathing was difficult, I felt like a stuffed sausage, and I am sure people were
staringwondering if I was going to pop, but ^$%&, they were ON!
I immediately did a few experimental squats, leg lifts and such to work the jeans in a bit (I could SQUAT in a size 12 jean! WTF?). I was going on the principle of denim sag. We all know that Old Navy jeans go on super tight, and ten minutes later, you are hauling the *%$#^ed ass up when the spandex relaxes.
So kill me, I am too cheap to buy designer jeans… *sigh* Also? Can’t afford them. Seriously.
I am stubborn, and with a mirror examination to ensure I was indeed able to walk about in them without embarrassing myself, I wore the &^%@ing things to work. I have a muffin top that I am hiding with a cardigan, they feel snug, and I may still go buy a pair at lunch because I get uncomfortable when they press on my C-Scar (anyone with a C-Scar will understand that kind of pain. Ow.). Also? I want to go try on a non-washed eleventy-billion times, not- shrunken pair of twelves for fun.
But they are on, I am at work, and that is a ^%#@ing achievement. I think that is something worth swearing about, don’t you? ♥