"I think I need a new pair of shoes, or purse, or sweater. Or perhaps therapy?"
That was my facebook status a few days ago after feeling run over by a truckload of stress.
"Or just retail therapy!!! May as well have a tiny glass of wine too :)"
That was the first comment given on the subject. And I think it is GENIUS!!
Retail Therapy. Yes. YES!
So, I decided to act upon this great idea and ended up with a husband approved, appropriately lengthed, sequined mini-skirt. And it felt good.
There's just one problem. I have no idea where I am going to wear it.
Okay, maybe two problems. Now I want to shop even more.
Don't kid yourselves...as expensive as traditional therapy can be, retail therapy can cost immeasurably more.
But there is something to the whole idea of losing yourself in the mall (in the emotional sense, not the physical. I know the layout of the mall all too well), and thinking only about the next treasure you might find.
Okay, so my problems are still there when I get in my car to drive home and this "therapy" has no lasting benefit, (unless my bank account is trying to lose weight ;) but it feels good in the moment. (Which is a concept worth exploring on another day.) And I have a fabulous skirt... that I might never wear. (Okay, so not my brightest moment, but the skirt shines and shimmers ;)
So maybe therapy is not the most accurate word for shopping. Maybe I should separate the phrase into "Retail" and "Therapy" and explore both avenues on different occasions.
Because when not in your right mind, shopping can sometimes be more damaging than helpful.
But Dang! It sure is fun!
Monday, October 31, 2011
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Is it All an Act?
I have a new, very part-time job. I'm an "acting" patient for Paramedic exams. You probably think I am crazy since I have been an actual medical patient so many times, but I just figure I own a little more expertise for the job. Too bad my years of active research on the subject hasn't counted for a higher pay scale.
You'd realize just how crazy I am if you saw what we have to wear while on the job. Since our clothes are often cut away by the trembling, sweaty candidate, we dress in local thrift store outfits that are good for...well...nothing except being cut off. (Don't get me started about how nerve-wracking it is to see those shaky hands coming at you with industrial strength scissors!)
The woman who heads up the program buys the clothes in two sizes: small and extra extra large. Since I fit somewhere in between, these options are not ideal, if ya know what I mean. It also doesn't help my image to be wearing man's way-too-short tuxedo pants and button up plaid shirts.
Lunch break in a nearby restaurant is a bit of a challenge, since there is stage makeup involved. Let's just say my pallor could cause someone to actually call the Paramedics, which would be delightfully ironic and would keep me laughing for days. (That is, as long as I didn't see one of the previously failed candidates coming my way with a pair of scissors. ;)
No, in this case, fashion and work don't mix. The only style statement made while on this job is "Ugh, gawd-awful!"
So if you see me in men's size 42 dress pants and in a sling, I am acting. But if I am dressed great and looking pale while lying on the ground moaning, then save me. It's for real.
I'm just trying to get a raise. ;)
You'd realize just how crazy I am if you saw what we have to wear while on the job. Since our clothes are often cut away by the trembling, sweaty candidate, we dress in local thrift store outfits that are good for...well...nothing except being cut off. (Don't get me started about how nerve-wracking it is to see those shaky hands coming at you with industrial strength scissors!)
The woman who heads up the program buys the clothes in two sizes: small and extra extra large. Since I fit somewhere in between, these options are not ideal, if ya know what I mean. It also doesn't help my image to be wearing man's way-too-short tuxedo pants and button up plaid shirts.
Lunch break in a nearby restaurant is a bit of a challenge, since there is stage makeup involved. Let's just say my pallor could cause someone to actually call the Paramedics, which would be delightfully ironic and would keep me laughing for days. (That is, as long as I didn't see one of the previously failed candidates coming my way with a pair of scissors. ;)
No, in this case, fashion and work don't mix. The only style statement made while on this job is "Ugh, gawd-awful!"
So if you see me in men's size 42 dress pants and in a sling, I am acting. But if I am dressed great and looking pale while lying on the ground moaning, then save me. It's for real.
I'm just trying to get a raise. ;)
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Up and Down, Down or Up
Oh, the ups and downs of life. And oh, how the ups and downs cause ups and downs in blood sugar. "They" say that without the downs of life we don't feel the ups, but right now I could use a little smooth sailing. (Well, perhaps not sailing as I get terribly motion sick even if it is smooth.) How about stability. That's what I would love right now.
It never ceases to amaze my busy little mind how much stress influences every part of us. I already mentioned the blood sugars, but it affects even more than those.
First off, my whole body revolts with exhaustion and aches and pains when under stress. And I know my demeanor changes as a result. The monotone sound of my voice is a clue to my well-being as it also lowers in pitch involuntarily. I hate that.
I also notice that the effort I put into my fashion decisions and hair style each day diminishes in troubled times. I still care about how I appear, but it just takes more oomph to spend the time on such things. I will admit, comfy shoes, hoodies and a pony tail are tempting when under the pressure cooker of life. Especially when only going to my local grocery store to buy rice to put in its own pressure cooker. Poor rice. I know how you feel.
But I wonder if I have inwardly judged other women a little too harshly when noticing their sweats and running shoes while in the mall. Maybe they are just going through a rough patch and fashion is the least of their worries. And that's okay. Better to take care of your inner self than always worry about how you look on the outside.
Some days though, figuring out what look I am going for is the challenge and fun that gets me out of bed in the morning. So just as we shouldn't judge those who dress down under stress, please don't judge those who dress up under stress as well.
We all have to cope with different life challenges and we all cope differently with those life challenges.
Sweats or skirts, it really doesn't matter. But I sure wish my blood sugar would put on a more suitable outfit.
One that perhaps makes the statement, "stability".
It never ceases to amaze my busy little mind how much stress influences every part of us. I already mentioned the blood sugars, but it affects even more than those.
First off, my whole body revolts with exhaustion and aches and pains when under stress. And I know my demeanor changes as a result. The monotone sound of my voice is a clue to my well-being as it also lowers in pitch involuntarily. I hate that.
I also notice that the effort I put into my fashion decisions and hair style each day diminishes in troubled times. I still care about how I appear, but it just takes more oomph to spend the time on such things. I will admit, comfy shoes, hoodies and a pony tail are tempting when under the pressure cooker of life. Especially when only going to my local grocery store to buy rice to put in its own pressure cooker. Poor rice. I know how you feel.
But I wonder if I have inwardly judged other women a little too harshly when noticing their sweats and running shoes while in the mall. Maybe they are just going through a rough patch and fashion is the least of their worries. And that's okay. Better to take care of your inner self than always worry about how you look on the outside.
Some days though, figuring out what look I am going for is the challenge and fun that gets me out of bed in the morning. So just as we shouldn't judge those who dress down under stress, please don't judge those who dress up under stress as well.
We all have to cope with different life challenges and we all cope differently with those life challenges.
Sweats or skirts, it really doesn't matter. But I sure wish my blood sugar would put on a more suitable outfit.
One that perhaps makes the statement, "stability".
Monday, October 17, 2011
Fur: Real or Faux?
Me and my baby sister both love fur. No, she's not actually a baby, but she is ten years younger than I am so she'll always be my baby sis. I affectionately called her "Kid" while she was, well, a kid - probably confusing others each time I tried to get her attention in the mall. "Hey Kid!" I would yell, and to me that was her name, but to the general population it probably seemed as though I were a disgruntled stranger, unimpressed with a young punk. That, or they thought I was a stalker. Nope. Just a bossy, loving older sister.
But back to the fur. When I say we both love fur, I think I should clarify something. It's true that we have that in common. But there is a definite distinction of what that love of fur looks like.
She prefers the real stuff and I am passionate about the faux variety. What I mean is...she likes to pet it (while it encompasses a living animal), while I love to wear it (while strutting my stuff. ;)
Yes, I have a dog named Bob and I love him to pieces, but he sheds enough hair to dress me head to toe. I do not want to wear Bob. Nor does my solid brown suede couch. My couch does not look good in a fur coat.
No, as much as I love animals, my little sis takes the prize on that one. (Can we say excessive? ;) Often known to have multiple dogs and even more cats in her dwelling, it can be a little chaotic in my opinion. When she throws a litter of kittens in there and heck, why not a rabbit, the chaos turns to a cyclone of claws and flying fur.
I love that she is an animal lover. I appreciate her passion for the creatures of the earth. But as for me, when it comes to fur, I want to wear it when I choose, and not just because I sat down on my comfy brown sofa to watch "What Not To Wear". I can guarantee, Stacey and Clinton would say that wearing your dog is the definition of the show.
So I love ya Kid, and Bob, I think you are about to head outside. ;)
But back to the fur. When I say we both love fur, I think I should clarify something. It's true that we have that in common. But there is a definite distinction of what that love of fur looks like.
She prefers the real stuff and I am passionate about the faux variety. What I mean is...she likes to pet it (while it encompasses a living animal), while I love to wear it (while strutting my stuff. ;)
Yes, I have a dog named Bob and I love him to pieces, but he sheds enough hair to dress me head to toe. I do not want to wear Bob. Nor does my solid brown suede couch. My couch does not look good in a fur coat.
No, as much as I love animals, my little sis takes the prize on that one. (Can we say excessive? ;) Often known to have multiple dogs and even more cats in her dwelling, it can be a little chaotic in my opinion. When she throws a litter of kittens in there and heck, why not a rabbit, the chaos turns to a cyclone of claws and flying fur.
I love that she is an animal lover. I appreciate her passion for the creatures of the earth. But as for me, when it comes to fur, I want to wear it when I choose, and not just because I sat down on my comfy brown sofa to watch "What Not To Wear". I can guarantee, Stacey and Clinton would say that wearing your dog is the definition of the show.
So I love ya Kid, and Bob, I think you are about to head outside. ;)
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Punk or Funk?
Aging gracefully - that is a concept worth exploring on this fine Saturday afternoon.
You see, the other day, I ran into some folks that I haven't seen in ages while wearing my funky wedge boots, khaki skinny cargos, and a black sweater. I figured it was a hip-happenin' look and wore it confidently. That is, until my long lost friends commented on my personal aging process.
I believe the conversation went something like this:
"Wow, you look younger and younger every time I see you!"
"Why, thank you!" says me.
"Yeah, I'm having a hard time telling you apart from those young punks hanging around."
"Oh, umm, well, I'm not sure how to take that," says me again with an awkward "Haha".
After a few more pleasantries we parted ways while my mind spun like a top on crack. I was with one of those "young punks" they spoke of (well, actually I would rather describe her as a fabulous nice friend who happens to be a teenager), and as soon as I found her wandering the store I rapidly posed the question, "Do I look like I am trying to look like a teenager?!?"
She reassured me that I was not, and that "hip" was a more accurate description.
But I can't help but still wonder...
Am I too young for my age?
I think part of the dilemma for me is that many people battling chronic illness such as myself, look older than they are. The disease can take a toll on the body and create a haggard look.
I'll be honest - call it vain or recognize it as a fight to not let the illness win, but I so don't want to look haggard or like I am always in a funk.
At the same time, I don't want to push the envelope too far.
And then I am reminded of the middle-aged man who recently pegged me ten years older than I actually am, and the crack-filled top starts spinning again.
Well? What can I say? Stylish aging is a tricky, tricky thing. And I don't own the manual.
I think for now I'll choose to believe my young girlfriend's perspective rather than the older-than-me man.
Besides, I'd prefer "punk" over "funk" any day. ;)
You see, the other day, I ran into some folks that I haven't seen in ages while wearing my funky wedge boots, khaki skinny cargos, and a black sweater. I figured it was a hip-happenin' look and wore it confidently. That is, until my long lost friends commented on my personal aging process.
I believe the conversation went something like this:
"Wow, you look younger and younger every time I see you!"
"Why, thank you!" says me.
"Yeah, I'm having a hard time telling you apart from those young punks hanging around."
"Oh, umm, well, I'm not sure how to take that," says me again with an awkward "Haha".
After a few more pleasantries we parted ways while my mind spun like a top on crack. I was with one of those "young punks" they spoke of (well, actually I would rather describe her as a fabulous nice friend who happens to be a teenager), and as soon as I found her wandering the store I rapidly posed the question, "Do I look like I am trying to look like a teenager?!?"
She reassured me that I was not, and that "hip" was a more accurate description.
But I can't help but still wonder...
Am I too young for my age?
I think part of the dilemma for me is that many people battling chronic illness such as myself, look older than they are. The disease can take a toll on the body and create a haggard look.
I'll be honest - call it vain or recognize it as a fight to not let the illness win, but I so don't want to look haggard or like I am always in a funk.
At the same time, I don't want to push the envelope too far.
And then I am reminded of the middle-aged man who recently pegged me ten years older than I actually am, and the crack-filled top starts spinning again.
Well? What can I say? Stylish aging is a tricky, tricky thing. And I don't own the manual.
I think for now I'll choose to believe my young girlfriend's perspective rather than the older-than-me man.
Besides, I'd prefer "punk" over "funk" any day. ;)
Friday, October 14, 2011
White...the New Black?
I love the color white. (I know. It's not actually a color. It is the lack of color, but stick with me please.) Still, I prefer my lawn to be green. And it's about to become very white outside. Hopefully not in the next couple of days, but we've entered the time zone when the snow starts to fly. At least where I live. Which made it necessary to go shopping. Necessary, you ask? Well, yes. In this instance it was.
My last year's winter coat simply didn't survive the season. With a black grease stain and a broken zipper, the shiny silver warmth-giver is toast. (Where did that saying come from? I love toast!)
So shopping I went. Yay! A justifiable purchase was in order. I hit the stores running in my new slouchy wedge-heeled black boots and animal print blouse with a second opinion at hand, thanks to my young and hip friend Zoey. (That's not really her name but I have to protect the innocent ;)
Here's the question. Is white a good (non-color) color choice for my six foot tall frame and platinum blond hair? We both loved the masterpiece when we saw it. And it meets all of my nit-picky requirements. It is three-quarter length, has sleeves long enough for my tall arms, it's warm and is a good name brand for a decent price. What more could I ask for, right?
But what if I look like the abominable snowman?!? That is not the look I am going for.
My husband gave the nod of approval when I came home. At least for the style. (Which is great because he has a uncanny sense for female fashion and I highly value his opinion.) But he made a valid point. What are the chances of me keeping this strikingly sharp looking outwear clean?!? I have visions of blood splattering all over it like a bad CSI episode as I test my sugars while driving. (Okay, that is probably never a good idea. ;)
It is machine washable but I feel it a risky move to keep it. The tags are still on and I have 11 days counting down in order to decide. But I love it! Help!
Well, here's hopin' I don't need it before my decision time is up. And if you do see a tall, platinum blond with an even blonder winter coat on, compliments would be nice. Lie if you have to.
Because by then the decision will have been made. A done deal. No turning back.
Besides...when it comes to flattering style, white is the new black. Right?
My last year's winter coat simply didn't survive the season. With a black grease stain and a broken zipper, the shiny silver warmth-giver is toast. (Where did that saying come from? I love toast!)
So shopping I went. Yay! A justifiable purchase was in order. I hit the stores running in my new slouchy wedge-heeled black boots and animal print blouse with a second opinion at hand, thanks to my young and hip friend Zoey. (That's not really her name but I have to protect the innocent ;)
Here's the question. Is white a good (non-color) color choice for my six foot tall frame and platinum blond hair? We both loved the masterpiece when we saw it. And it meets all of my nit-picky requirements. It is three-quarter length, has sleeves long enough for my tall arms, it's warm and is a good name brand for a decent price. What more could I ask for, right?
But what if I look like the abominable snowman?!? That is not the look I am going for.
My husband gave the nod of approval when I came home. At least for the style. (Which is great because he has a uncanny sense for female fashion and I highly value his opinion.) But he made a valid point. What are the chances of me keeping this strikingly sharp looking outwear clean?!? I have visions of blood splattering all over it like a bad CSI episode as I test my sugars while driving. (Okay, that is probably never a good idea. ;)
It is machine washable but I feel it a risky move to keep it. The tags are still on and I have 11 days counting down in order to decide. But I love it! Help!
Well, here's hopin' I don't need it before my decision time is up. And if you do see a tall, platinum blond with an even blonder winter coat on, compliments would be nice. Lie if you have to.
Because by then the decision will have been made. A done deal. No turning back.
Besides...when it comes to flattering style, white is the new black. Right?
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Trend Alert!
I don't know how I feel about something. Some things in life are clear cut. Yes, family is very important to me. No, child abuse is not acceptable. Yes, exercise is good for me. No, ketchup chips are not. Yes, boot cut jeans are flattering on most people. No, neon tights are not. But what about the latest trend?
Structured handbags are making a comeback.
Now, some structured bags have always been classic, but in recent years I have been more drawn to the more sack-shaped variety. I am not sure whether it is the style Per Se, or the functionality of a slouchy purse.
I will admit, I am a bit high-needs in this department. Of course there are the usual items one might discover in a woman's purse (as opposed to a men's purse? Most men will try to disguise their purse as a "laptop bag" or "gym bag" but we all know the truth, right ladies? ;) such as lipstick, a compact, wallet, hair pick and of course minty gum for breath-freshening action whenever needed. But I, Susie, have a few more needs to have by my side at all times. Blood sugar meter, sugar tablets, snack, extra insulin vial, meds, water bottle to take the meds, and a travel mug of coffee. (Okay, that last one might not be a necessity but it sure does help my mood ;) And those structured handbags look ridiculous when you get them in the size needed for such a list of supplies. (Oh wait! I have suitcases I use for travel! Maybe I could just use the midsized one out of my set! That would be high fashion, no? ;)
Which brings me back to my dilemma. Do I stick with the soon-to-be-so-yesterday style or do I carry around a stylin' briefcase and go with the "professional" look while I am grocery shopping?
Decisions, decisions.
Well, I could spend the rest of my day wrestling with this choice or I could pick up the phone and call my grandma and tell her how much she means to me. Hmmm...
Besides...I can always pick up a fashion mag after I hang up the phone, right? ;)
Structured handbags are making a comeback.
Now, some structured bags have always been classic, but in recent years I have been more drawn to the more sack-shaped variety. I am not sure whether it is the style Per Se, or the functionality of a slouchy purse.
I will admit, I am a bit high-needs in this department. Of course there are the usual items one might discover in a woman's purse (as opposed to a men's purse? Most men will try to disguise their purse as a "laptop bag" or "gym bag" but we all know the truth, right ladies? ;) such as lipstick, a compact, wallet, hair pick and of course minty gum for breath-freshening action whenever needed. But I, Susie, have a few more needs to have by my side at all times. Blood sugar meter, sugar tablets, snack, extra insulin vial, meds, water bottle to take the meds, and a travel mug of coffee. (Okay, that last one might not be a necessity but it sure does help my mood ;) And those structured handbags look ridiculous when you get them in the size needed for such a list of supplies. (Oh wait! I have suitcases I use for travel! Maybe I could just use the midsized one out of my set! That would be high fashion, no? ;)
Which brings me back to my dilemma. Do I stick with the soon-to-be-so-yesterday style or do I carry around a stylin' briefcase and go with the "professional" look while I am grocery shopping?
Decisions, decisions.
Well, I could spend the rest of my day wrestling with this choice or I could pick up the phone and call my grandma and tell her how much she means to me. Hmmm...
Besides...I can always pick up a fashion mag after I hang up the phone, right? ;)
Monday, October 10, 2011
"Right Into the Danger Zone"
I find myself here again. In the place where danger lurks behind every door, just waiting to pounce. Its vicious nature almost too much to handle. I can describe it in one word - Temptation. With a capital T.
It all starts at Thanksgiving, with Mother's raisin butter tarts and pumpkin pie just jumping off serving plates and into the open mouths of loved ones without daring to ask permission first. That, coupled with the butter-soaked baked stuffing, distorts my willpower and taunts incessantly.
Then comes Halloween. Grocery shopping becomes a torturous unwanted adventure as bags of bite sized chocolate and gooey-chewy candy line the aisles, threatening to fall into my cart if I create the slightest breeze as I walk by. These single serving portions are almost justifiable except that one always leads to six before I've even taken a breath.
Christmas is a whole 'nother beast. That food-fest lasts for weeks as family and friends gather around buffet tables stocked with Christmas pudding, fudge and peanut brittle, the supply well outweighing the demand.
Food isn't the only temptation digging its claws into my ribs. The need to be hunting the stores for the perfect gift leads me straight into distraction, otherwise known as the shoe section. (I know, I know. The shoe section is not typically the area one buys Christmas gifts for their parents but it simply pulls me around the corner and right into its clutches.) Boxing day (week? or is it month?) sales are just too strong for my weak {shopping} immune system.
It's all too much. Too much food. Too much sugar. Too much power.
But what is a diabetes-ridden, fashion-obsessed woman supposed to do? I am open to suggestion.
Maybe since I am entering the danger zone I should get myself a wing man (woman?).
A wise soldier going into battle always has someone watch their back.
Any takers?
It all starts at Thanksgiving, with Mother's raisin butter tarts and pumpkin pie just jumping off serving plates and into the open mouths of loved ones without daring to ask permission first. That, coupled with the butter-soaked baked stuffing, distorts my willpower and taunts incessantly.
Then comes Halloween. Grocery shopping becomes a torturous unwanted adventure as bags of bite sized chocolate and gooey-chewy candy line the aisles, threatening to fall into my cart if I create the slightest breeze as I walk by. These single serving portions are almost justifiable except that one always leads to six before I've even taken a breath.
Christmas is a whole 'nother beast. That food-fest lasts for weeks as family and friends gather around buffet tables stocked with Christmas pudding, fudge and peanut brittle, the supply well outweighing the demand.
Food isn't the only temptation digging its claws into my ribs. The need to be hunting the stores for the perfect gift leads me straight into distraction, otherwise known as the shoe section. (I know, I know. The shoe section is not typically the area one buys Christmas gifts for their parents but it simply pulls me around the corner and right into its clutches.) Boxing day (week? or is it month?) sales are just too strong for my weak {shopping} immune system.
It's all too much. Too much food. Too much sugar. Too much power.
But what is a diabetes-ridden, fashion-obsessed woman supposed to do? I am open to suggestion.
Maybe since I am entering the danger zone I should get myself a wing man (woman?).
A wise soldier going into battle always has someone watch their back.
Any takers?
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Friend or Foe?
I have a fair weather friend. At first I thought he was straight up. That what you saw was what you got. There were no guessing games. Whether you liked it or not, what he said was the truth. Until he started becoming inconsistent. I suppose he always was, but I always made excuses for the little discrepancies, blaming them on something I'd done or not done.
Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I declared to my husband that I was ditching the untrustworthy and was going on the hunt for a new, more stable companion.
It was time. I needed a new bathroom scale.
I hesitantly call him my friend, since I don't always like what he has to say to me, but definitely like him better than I used to. 60 pounds ago I stepped on him and determined his view of me was no longer allowed to grow, only shrink from that point forward.
But what has been so confusing to me is his inconsistencies. He is of the digital sort and my "number" could differ five or six pounds within two minutes! Surely my water retention levels could not be fluctuating that much without so much as a sip, and in such a short time.
It took me awhile to realize the degree of these errors since I never weighed myself more than once in a day, but finally my detective skills clued in and I just knew something had gone awry.
Although, my husband stood firm in the belief that Mr. Scale was as honorable and trustworthy as ever, and proved it with his consistent weight time after time.
Then it happened.
I actually let my husband watch me step onto my whacked out friend's back (which was a very rare occurrence, for obvious reasons known only to women ;) and he immediately got to the bottom of the dilemma. I wasn't letting the scale clear before stepping on! Which meant there were often extra phantom pounds on the display before I even so much as breathed on it! Just the action of turning it on was thwarting all my efforts!
So perhaps Mr. Scale isn't so fair weather after all. I still don't unconditionally love him, but our relationship is improving with time. Especially as my diabetes is better controlled and I get to wear way cooler clothes now!
So...keep fit, have fun, and don't give up on your friends too quickly. You might just be able to count on them ;) after all.
Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I declared to my husband that I was ditching the untrustworthy and was going on the hunt for a new, more stable companion.
It was time. I needed a new bathroom scale.
I hesitantly call him my friend, since I don't always like what he has to say to me, but definitely like him better than I used to. 60 pounds ago I stepped on him and determined his view of me was no longer allowed to grow, only shrink from that point forward.
But what has been so confusing to me is his inconsistencies. He is of the digital sort and my "number" could differ five or six pounds within two minutes! Surely my water retention levels could not be fluctuating that much without so much as a sip, and in such a short time.
It took me awhile to realize the degree of these errors since I never weighed myself more than once in a day, but finally my detective skills clued in and I just knew something had gone awry.
Although, my husband stood firm in the belief that Mr. Scale was as honorable and trustworthy as ever, and proved it with his consistent weight time after time.
Then it happened.
I actually let my husband watch me step onto my whacked out friend's back (which was a very rare occurrence, for obvious reasons known only to women ;) and he immediately got to the bottom of the dilemma. I wasn't letting the scale clear before stepping on! Which meant there were often extra phantom pounds on the display before I even so much as breathed on it! Just the action of turning it on was thwarting all my efforts!
So perhaps Mr. Scale isn't so fair weather after all. I still don't unconditionally love him, but our relationship is improving with time. Especially as my diabetes is better controlled and I get to wear way cooler clothes now!
So...keep fit, have fun, and don't give up on your friends too quickly. You might just be able to count on them ;) after all.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Wedges and Waves
I went grocery shopping in my new boots today. I felt like I could conquer the world! They felt fabulous! That is...until my excruciating headache I fought all weekend came back with a vengeance and I felt like throwing up. I swear, ginger and Tylenol have saved my life.
I thought when I woke up this morning that my weekend of feeling Bleck! was over. But apparently not.
Me and my boots pushed through though. At least until I got a call from a friend who asked me to an impromptu lunch date at the mall. That's when my feet told me that I needed to pace myself whilst breaking in new boots and I switched to my Birkenstocks. It felt a disappointing moment as I unzipped, peeled off the leather and stuffed my black socks into the wedges that in my heart still belonged on my feet. Sometimes, rather than follow our hearts, we must instead follow our soles. That is, the nerve endings reaching to the lowest point of our bodies, which in my case, thankfully still have feeling.
But what is up with this never-ending migraine? It seems that when medicated, an illusive relief tickles the edges of my head and temporarily calms the oceanic waves in my gut, only to return angrily a few hours later. As if it is archenemies with Tylenol, and feels the need to exact revenge at any show of weakness. I will admit...staring at this computer screen is not helping the good side win.
So on that note...
I will remove my stinky socks from my fabulous boots (which I seriously just remembered are in them ;) and tuck them away for the night with hopes of a reunion very soon. Right after I give my new best friends Sir Tylenol and Ms. Ginger the chance to win the fight.
Bye bye, Mr. Migraine. Tonight...you lose.
I thought when I woke up this morning that my weekend of feeling Bleck! was over. But apparently not.
Me and my boots pushed through though. At least until I got a call from a friend who asked me to an impromptu lunch date at the mall. That's when my feet told me that I needed to pace myself whilst breaking in new boots and I switched to my Birkenstocks. It felt a disappointing moment as I unzipped, peeled off the leather and stuffed my black socks into the wedges that in my heart still belonged on my feet. Sometimes, rather than follow our hearts, we must instead follow our soles. That is, the nerve endings reaching to the lowest point of our bodies, which in my case, thankfully still have feeling.
But what is up with this never-ending migraine? It seems that when medicated, an illusive relief tickles the edges of my head and temporarily calms the oceanic waves in my gut, only to return angrily a few hours later. As if it is archenemies with Tylenol, and feels the need to exact revenge at any show of weakness. I will admit...staring at this computer screen is not helping the good side win.
So on that note...
I will remove my stinky socks from my fabulous boots (which I seriously just remembered are in them ;) and tuck them away for the night with hopes of a reunion very soon. Right after I give my new best friends Sir Tylenol and Ms. Ginger the chance to win the fight.
Bye bye, Mr. Migraine. Tonight...you lose.
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