The MSN conversation snipit that sums up what's going on
John says:you were saying you couldn't read the money thing... what's wrong?Wench says:eh - just totally, completely overwhelmedJohn says:by what? - and don't say "everything"Wench says:christmas. the house. cleaning. planning our trip. planning the trip this week. gifts. realizing the mouse had gotten in to the drawer under the sink and realizing I have to wash all of it in the hottest water I can stand. cleaning the house. buying you presents. figuring out what the appropriate level of gifts for people at work.Wench says:tidying the house. cleaning the house. remembering to pay the bills. figuring out what happened to the present from you. doctor's appointment. finishing the perishables. getting something in the mail for you, to test out the address. watering the plants. putting away the laundry. doing the christmas cards.Wench says:everything.Yeah, I'm feeling more than a little overwhelmed. Which explains, I guess, the sobby little freak out I had when I got home from work today. A Strongbow and a half later, and multiple hours of cleaning, tiding, present finishing, and bill paying later, I feel much calmer. Still, you know, freaking out a little. But calmer. I'll pay the extra library fines for the dvd I'm not going to get back today. I did book the doctor's appointment, and the presents for work are enough - have to be enough. I've run out of time and, clearly, energy. (Home made marshmallows in two flavours, plus made-by-me hot chocolate mix, plus chocolate dipped candycanes to stir. Good enough, I hope. Too late if it's not, I guess.)
And still, I want to crawl in to my bed, pull the covers over my head, cry a little more, and slip off to sleep wrapped in the gentle haze of good cider.
4 sleeps until the beach...Labels: consumerism, holidailies, solo year, twisty, vacation
Talk about a random entry
Things are better, I guess. Spring is coming and I can see daylight. I'm trying hard to keep active (all those endorphins) and it helps. I just don't want to talk about it - not even in my paper journal. I did the depressed teenage online diary, and it was boring then and it would be worse now. So enough of that.
I do have a small rant. (If depression is anger without the enthusiasm, I seem to be getting my enthusiasm back.) Shopping. I've never been a big shopper, not really. Honestly, I'm too cheap. I mean, it's clothes. An eighth of my wardrobe is still, at age 25,
handmedowns. Now, if we're talking grocery shopping? I'm a spender. If we're talking plays and concerts and the like? I am more than happy to pull out my credit card. But clothes? Eh.
I was in the mall today (I work downtown, over one of the many interconnected malls) buying a Flames
tshirt (John made me) and was walking back to my building, going, "well, I could shop. I guess. It looks like there are some sales on." And I just couldn't do it.
Part of it is good old fashioned self loathing - always made worse from seeing yourself naked in a small room with lousy lighting. The rest of it is the way clothes fit. Listen. I work out. A lot. I have killer legs - to the point where sometimes during fitness classes I find myself admiring my own legs in the mirror. Sure, they may still be too big for boots, but they are cut, with muscles showing distinctly against each other. I am strong, and shapely. I love them. I like my ass - again, all the working out and the cross country skiing and stuff. However. I'm a size 10 on the bottom. And on top? Well, I'll be conservative and say at least a 14. I'm a 36E. (My little sister, at 17 and a national level water polo player, was a 34G when she had her reduction. It runs in the family.) This makes it impossible to buy work shirts, because if I can do it up, it's cut way too big on the bottom, so I look fat. I feel fat, but I don't need clothes that make me look it. I can wear
tshirts, but between the dress code in my office and the fact that in
tshirts, all people can see of my is BREASTS, that's out. As for pants?
See the pockets? On the side like that? They look awful on me. I'm
pouchy in the stomach and it causes them to flare really unattractively. And for the last year, pretty much every single pair of pants I've tried on has that type of pockets. I cannot wait for it to warm up enough for skirt weather.
All this boils down to the fact that every time I try and buy clothes, I end up feeling despair. I mean, you kind of expect that with bra shopping. 36E. Think about it. That
shit's often so ugly it makes one contemplate suicide, but I've found by spending around $150 per bra, I can find stuff that fits, looks good and doesn't want to make me consider amazonian procedures. So once or twice a year, I grit my teeth, go to a high quality boutique with very helpful staff, and buy.
Bathing suits? Fine. I mean, it's spandex. It may not look great, but if the boobs are all out in front, shall we say, I'm okay. Again, no one can really see past them, and if I go the separate
tankini way, I can always make sure both parts fit. Plus, I spent 10 years competitive swimming, so the whole swim suit thing isn't a big deal for me.
Unlike pants. 6 months ago, I spend a week of lunch hours, plus an after work, trying on pretty much every pair of pants downtown. (Well, okay, only within the Core buildings, and not Holt
Renfrew.) And I couldn't find a single pair that looked good and didn't require dry cleaning.
Shirts are a crap shoot - I have found some that work, but it's rare. I even tried shopping in the plus size stores, but no luck - I'm too skinning for them. My breasts aren't, but my body is, and they just hang on me. It's like, I can't shop plus size, and I can't find much in the way of normal. It's aggravating. To the extreme. To the point where now, even the thought of going clothes shopping makes my breath catch in my throat.
And this is why I kind of look like a frump.
Labels: body, consumerism, life
