This morning while in my usual rush to get dressed, an unfamiliar glimpse of denim caught my eye. There in my closet was this pair of jeans I didn’t really recognize, likely because they were in the “when I lose a few pounds” section of my closet. Nothing about them was ringing a bell, like some would that were at one time favorites and brought back any sort of memory at all. I was feeling adventurous this morning, so I tried them on. And they fit.
Now, for any man that might be reading this please let me define “fit” as it pertains to women’s jeans. “Fit” at the store means either we will purchase first and then try them on at home because we are not a lunatic who would voluntarily humiliate ourselves in the unforgiving box of shame (dressing room), or that we’ve been sufficiently medicated to actually pull a big enough size off the shelf in front of other people without fear of embarrassment. “Fit” at home means only that we can 1) zip them up without pliers, and 2) we don’t call out for you to help roll us off the bed after zipping. Breathing may be optional.
So with this small victory I rolled myself off the bed and back to the mirror with reservation for the last deal breaker test, which I passed. No camel hoof. Yes, camel hoof. I once tried to explain camel toe to a female relative who somehow lived to 50 without hearing of such a thing. It quickly became her favorite new phrase which she tried to use in as many sentences as possible. Only she began saying camel “hoof” like she was an authority on the subject. She was beyond correcting. It reminds me of her and makes me smile, so has been changed in my vocab as well.
The sneaky workouts in my life must be paying off. These are the things that aren’t really exercising, but that annoyingly make me sweat nonetheless. Like today’s changing of the light bulbs. Nothing really strenuous from a typical point of view, but some nincompoop put 75 watters in the 3-bulb fixtures over each of the sinks in our bathroom. The blinding light not only puts premature wrinkles around my squinting eyes but the heat these things put off has cracked the glass shades and makes me feel like I’m under the spotlight on Broadway. H.O.T. So I decided to change them out to the 60’s that the fixture insists the max should be. Standing on my tippy toes, my calves got quite the burn going on – and soon the sweat began trickling down my forehead. I also get a little nervous unscrewing bulbs, there’s something about the weak crackling of a bulb that doesn’t want to turn loose of its socket that worries me it will break off and slice me to bits. You would think I’m disarming a bomb or something. So six 75’s out, six 60’s in and a shower later these mystery pants fit over my butt.
Miraculous. Eh, not really. I actually have been hitting the gym more, but I’m trying not to be a maniac about it. I’m telling myself if I don’t make a big deal about it that it might become easier. When I get all gung ho I just end up sore and pissed off about it and stop doing it. I’m hoping that easing into things will bring about more subtle results and with them, more random pleasant surprises like wearing pants and breathing at the same time. It really is the little things in life that we have to celebrate, right?