Tag: self-deprecating

How I Know

Yesterday, we put up Christmas lights on the outside of the house. This was my first time doing this (at the ripe age of 38), btw. There was some yelling, complaining, and arguing, but endless Clark Griswold references so that evened it out. It took a couple of hours because my boyfriend had to measure the distance between every gutter hook to the exact 12 inches. He also had to count out the same amount of lights between each hook. I would have just slapped the shit up there and hoped for the best. (It would have looked just fine and it would have taken 20 minutes.)

One of our neighbors stopped to comment on the arduous task it is to put up lights, people walked by with their dogs and children, and countless cars drove by in this span of time.

When we were finally done and back inside, I caught a glimpse of myself in the guest bathroom mirror, and I was shook.

I screamed, “Why didn’t you tell me I looked like this?”

From the other room, I heard, “Looked like what? That’s what you always look like.”

That’s what you always look like.

Ya’ll.

So, this is it. This is when I finally give up on looking even half-decent at home. This is when I don’t apparently care anymore about what my neighbors think of me, because when I say I looked a sight. I looked a sight.

I had regrettably not put on a bra because I was wearing my stained Old Navy sweatshirt from 1994. People aren’t supposed to know you aren’t wearing a bra when you wear a sweatshirt. Those are lies, ladies. LIES. How I know this is because I had no boobs at all in my putting-up-lights-attire. Literally looked like a pre-pubescent 12-year-old boy up top. Where were my bewbs? Well, those assholes had gone off to join up with my fat gut. I guess years of not wearing my bra in the house has not toned my pec muscles after all.

Next on the hot mess runway, we had my “festive” white and black buffalo plaid leggings that showed off some turquoise Hanes Care Comfort underwear that has zero crotch courtesy of my puppy. Too bad I wasn’t wearing them ironically because maybe this could be the next style trend? Also, I should probably throw that pair of underwear away.

The effort I had to expend while barking orders from the ground at my boyfriend who had to climb up and down a ladder repeatedly caused oil production on my face that could rival ExxonMobil.

Finally, we had the hair. I had it in a high messy bun. When I say ‘high’ I mean I had a unicorn horn made of a mess of frizz and tangles on my forehead. My inch-long gray roots made my hair appear to be floating over a bald head. It was a masterpiece of “You okay?”

Special mention to my worn-out plaid slippers that clashed so expertly with the rest of my you-look-homeless-how-do-you-live-in-a-three-bedroom-house look.

So this is how I know. This is how I know that I have unequivocally given up on my looks.

Yeehaw.

What do you wear at home and where you can be seen by the neighbors? Give me the tea.

The Leggings Spread

You might have noticed that I was MIA on Wednesday (my usual new-post-day). I’ve been so busy that I’ve hardly had time to write. This makes me entirely too sad, so I’m planning on getting my writing shit together in a massive way. 
For this week’s #flashbackfriday, I thought I’d share my post about the Leggings Spread. I’m sharing this particular post, because I need to be reminded of my own advice.
#stillcantfitintomyjeans
It’s no secret that I believe leggings are life. They are insanely comfortable, they don’t cut painfully into your fat, and they don’t feel the need to remind you every time you yank them on that you’ve been laying the butter on pretty heavy lately. 
I seriously have a definite love affair with my collection of leggings. It’s almost sick, guys. 
I treat them better than my poor boyfriend. 
I never dry them. I bought a deliciously scented fabric softener to make them smell irresistible (is it weird I feel the need to have my pants smelling irresistible?). I also bought special hangers, because you don’t put these babies in a drawer. 
Because I’ve been so comfortable and happy, I’ve hardly noticed it. 
Noticed what, you ask? 
The Spread.
Due to the forgiving nature of leggings, it’s easy to not realize when your girth starts to spread in all directions. 
I’ve been ignorantly blissful about my weight these past few months. 
That is, until I decided to wear jeans to school. Whatever possessed me to think this was a good idea is beyond me. 
Because all of my jeans have a ridiculous amount of stretch, I didn’t really notice it until I sat down in my chair at school. 
Thank you, Baby Jesus and all that is holy, that this occurred before my class was present. 
When I sat down, due to the sheer force of my stomach, my pants jumped ship as said stomach spilled over the top, like overflowing bread dough in the oven. 
It happened in slo-mo and I just sat, stunned, watching my overflowing fat. 
The rest of the day I spent sucking as much in as possible as to not knock an unsuspecting kid in the face with my fat. 
Fuck. I’m disgusting. 
I’ve figured out what the real purpose of jeans are-they are your First Alert Weight Gain System. If you can still breathe in your buttoned jeans, you’re golden. If you need an inhaler after buttoning, you fat, friend. 
Real pants are assholes, but they are like those true friends who don’t feed you any bullshit. They both won’t hesitate to tell you you’re looking like a polar bear in a puffy jacket. 
Maybe real pants aren’t as useless as I’ve been believing. As soon as I can fit into my jeans again, I’ll maybe put them back into the wardrobe rotation. But, just so we’re clear, I’m still wearing leggings the majority of the week. I’m not about jean-everyday- life anymore. 

Bend your knees for the added power and energy you’re gonna need to cram yourself into your neglected jeans.
When the button doesn’t take the first try…
Jump. Because jumping into your jeans is the obvious answer. Sorry, neighbor. No, I’m fine. No, a large piece of furniture didn’t fall over. Just fuck off, OK?
Is it just me, or does this look like my butt is on backwards?! Something doesn’t add up here.
Screw it. I’ll just wear my leggings.

An extra special “thank you” to my boyfriend, who just said, “You want me to do what?” and “OK, let’s do this” when I told him I wanted to recreate squeezing into my jeans. 
Ladies, learn from me. Even if you don’t plan on actually wearing those asshole jeans, try them on at least once a month to monitor how far your Leggings Spread has grown. 
You’ll thank me later.