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Before I start yet another whiny post, I want to thank those of you who so kindly comment on my other whiny posts! Your support means the world to me – it’s the reason I keep writing at all, truly. Thank you!

***

I’ve been struggling with first-world problems this week. I can’t remember if I’ve mentioned our woes with my son and kindergarten. He turns five this summer and we’ll be shipping him off to kindergarten (well, driving him) in September. Now, I don’t think it’s arrogant of me to say that he’s very bright. Neither do I condemn public schools as all being places of evil (partly because it’s true and partly because TeacherMommy would kick my ass if I did. I went to public schools from the fifth grade on, after my parents got back from their 8-year stint as missionaries in West Africa, where I was homeschooled, and I will always value the education (if not always the peer experiences) that I got there. I had some extraordinary teachers, whom I will remember for the rest of my life.

That said, WA state schools are, as in the case of many state schools at the moment, in a lot of trouble and, having seen my sister’s experiences with local public schools in high school, I’m not optimistic about their ability to meet the needs of gifted children, particularly not those who, for various reasons, might need a little extra attention. It’s not that I think a kindergarten teacher here wouldn’t want to do that…it’s just that, in a class of 23 children, dealing with one who’s exceptionally stubborn, even for a five-year-old, and gets caught up so deeply in reading a book that he literally doesn’t hear me calling his name from two feet away, is a challenge.

His daycare provider, who has three children in public school (so certainly doesn’t have an issue with that), herself recommends private school for him simply because of who he is – it takes a lot of work to explain to him WHY something must be done, because if he doesn’t understand that, he will NOT just obey. He will become defiant and stubborn. I want his early education experiences to be wonderful. I want him to love learning – he’s such a curious little boy, and he loves to learn new things. I want what all parents want for their children: happiness.

We’ve been able to get financial aid from a small private school near us. In exchange, they want us to commit to what would normally be 9 hours of work-in-kind, but for us is six hours, because of my busy schedule. The problem is this: in the fall and spring, when I’d be asked to do this work, I’ll be doing 50 internship hours per semester. I work full-time too, and that means that I have to do internship hours on the weekend, probably on Saturday. So. I’ll be working six days per week.

The school has a thrift store associated with it, where my mom will probably work for several hours each week. However, while they investigate other possibilities for stuff I can do (this being made more difficult by the fact that I do work M-F), the option they’ve thrown out is cleaning the school for 2-3 hours every couple of weeks on the weekend.

Cleaning the school. Yes, being a janitor.

Now, my great-grandfather was a janitor, amongst other things. That’s fine. Working in a service industry takes so much work – and I have a lot of respect for people who make sure that other people have clean places to live and work. I’ve been agonizing over whether or not the fact that I would dread this with every fiber of my being is because I’m being snobbish, but I don’t think it is. I hate cleaning. My own house? Not clean. I like living in a clean place but I’m not very good at doing it. Now, I think I could do just fine mopping floors and cleaning bathrooms if I had to, but it struck me a couple of days ago that it’s not about the cleaning: it’s about what the cleaning represents.

The work I do pays the bills. I’m an administrative assistant and there’s certainly no shame in that. I enjoy most of the people that I work with and, when I can really sink my teeth into a task, I like doing that too. The fact is, though, that what I do doesn’t challenge me intellectually in any way and there are times when I find myself wondering what my one-and-three-quarters master’s degrees are doing for me (I’ve paid a lot for them) if, instead of immersing myself in books and art, I’m pestering people (and making them unhappy in the process) to pick up a package or put their own damn dishes in the dishwasher. I spend forty hours a week doing things that aren’t my first love. The thought of doing an extra day of work, PLUS doing 2-3 hours more every week or two doing work that I already don’t have time to do at home (don’t ask me when the last time was that I mopped my bathroom floor or cleaned the toilet…I could tell you, but then I’d have to die of shame) is…hard. Torturous.

Not because it’s cleaning. I know there are people who love cleaning, for whom it would be perfect. Because it would be an intentional use of my already limited time doing something that I really loathe doing. It would eat into an already packed week, taking time away from my child, nibbling away at the only time during the week that I get to be truly creative, truly myself, truly free and happy.

I resent that. I resent that a rich person, who probably has the time to spare, can pay up-front for everything (and get a discount doing it), while someone like me, who doesn’t have as much in the way of resources and can’t pay up-front ALSO has to work even more to try to give my child the best education and experience that he can have. I’m frustrated with myself, for having made financial choices that affect my son negatively, and most of all, I fear that I’m being snobbish and awful not wanting to spend a few hours each week scrubbing school toilets. I feel like this makes me a terrible person and I don’t like that person I’m afraid it makes me.

First-world problems.

Two steps forward…

Bless my GP. She tries hard. She really does. She wants to understand HAES and wants to help me on my journey but sometimes we have these moments of complete disconnect, like after my appointment yesterday (yes, I got migraine meds and will take them if I need them). I cannot remember why I said it but mentioned that fat people are accused of having no will power but actually, I’ve got shedloads of will power. Will power =/= ability to change or emotional readiness. I meant it in the context of starting yoga, where I’m finally at the point where I’d do a class if I could find one that was affordable and worked with my schedule. She acknowledged that this was GREAT and then said “Have you tried Weight Watchers and their support groups?”

*headdesk*

I repeated the 95-97% of people gain back the weight statistic, she said “I know, I know…” and said that if there was anything she COULD do to help me with HAES, that she really did want to. And I believe her. She is trying.

But I thought…maybe I should send her a list. Send her a list like the one I gave my doctor back in the UK, which included every diet I’ve ever been on (at least that I can remember). I’ll expand it a bit, to include things I now know are significant that I didn’t see for the warning signs that they were then:

The list. Contains possibly painful/triggering descriptions of past diets, weight loss, and body hatred.

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Nightmares & Gardening

I normally really like dreaming. I’ve been having lucid dreams (mixed with non-lucid) for a long time; I was six or seven when I learned that if I opened my eyes REALLY widely in a dream, it triggered something that would wake me up and take me out of a particularly terrifying nightmare. Since then I’ve had fairly few nightmares, all told, and I generally like exploring my dream world. The last couple of nights, on the other hand, have been disturbing.

Never fear, I won’t bore everyone with all the details – suffice it to say that in my dreams in the last two nights, I’ve been shot in the knee by a sniper while trying to turn in a paper that was late to a professor whose class (and then whose office) I could not find. I’ve been berated by an old friend for not keeping in touch and been engaged to a different old friend. Apparently my subconscious is exploring my lesbian side, which is fine but stressful when I’m trying to catch a flight after having lunch with a group of friends, but still haven’t been served ten minutes before I have to leave to catch the flight, and a cute Canadian customs official is after me about my US passport details, and I end up falling for him and have to confess this both to my female fiancee and to my real-life husband.

They’re horrifyingly realistic while I’m in them and I wake up still scared, only to realize with an overwhelming flood of exhausted relief that it was only a dream.

Stress much? I don’t need a therapist to tell you that I’ve got a lot on my mind, perhaps the largest portion of which is not something I can discuss in a public blog entry. I also feel that something is on the precipice of a huge change; what that something is, I don’t know, but all the possibilities are terrifying and I’m scared. Whether the latter is true I don’t know – what I do know is that the anxiety is causing the dreams and having both my waking and sleeping lives be stressful is tiring.

***

My legs hurt. I seized the three or four hours of windy-but-not-as-freezing-as-earlier hours of afternoon “nice” weather and used them to completely rearrange my deck garden. I put up shelves supported by bricks and concrete breezeblock (the latter helpfully put in place by my Strong!Dad!), shifted all the pots away from the wall to put up the shelves, and then shifted all the pots back on to the shelves, including a number that I repotted. This doesn’t seem like exhausting work, really, but my legs disagree – the muscles on the backs of my thighs are screaming in outraged protest.

And I kinda like it. I liked that I worked hard and that I’m feeling it in my body. I’m trying to figure out if this is a semi-masochistic old “EXERCISE HURTS BUT IT’S GOOD FOR YOU!” tape or what. I do, however, know that my recent desire to stretch is probably going to lead to a yoga class. If, that is, I can afford it. The first eight months of this year have been kicking/are kicking/will kick my butt in financial terms, so finding the money to go do something, even if it makes my body feel good, is hard.

We shall see.

And in the meantime, I’ll worry about that too.

P.S. I meant to say that the deck garden looks FABULOUS and I WILL take pictures, once I’ve got batteries in my camera again. It was a joy – pure and utter bliss – to see my perennials poking up shoots, and my container-hydrangea jabbing out new leaves, and my hellebores, primroses, and violets blooming away. A touch of much-needed life in this especially cold, dreary Seattle spring.

Faith-wise, I’m a bit of a puzzle, what with being an ethnic Mennonite (my last name marks me indelibly as someone with Mennonite heritage)/preacher’s kid/missionary kid/agnostic/questioning person but I follow folks like Jim Wallis of Sojourners, etc. just because spirituality still speaks so strongly to me. He’s fasting at the moment, is Jim Wallis, and I’ve found myself ambivalent about this; it’s his body, and his choice, but really? Fasting? Is there a point?

He’s not fasting for Lent, I don’t think, but it blended together with stories of friends giving things up for Lent: generally things like chocolate or frosting. I find myself…upset by this. If there is a God, what in the world does God care whether or not I have a cupcake piled with frosting, or a Haagen Dasz coffee crunch bar? How does it benefit my spirituality in any way? Why not give up the REALLY hard stuff, like criticizing our bodies? Why not go out on a limb and make a point of helping others – building a relationship with an elderly neighbor who is lonely and/or needs assistance, or something else that compels us to become servants, rather than giving up something that we’re just going to start eating again in forty days (and potentially disliking ourselves for?) Is that really healthy?

So then I thought, what would I give up, if I were to buy into this whole Lent-no-yummy-foods malarkey and I realized something. There is no food out there that would fit into the category of “negative craving” (if I bought into that idea in the first place, of course) that I could give up. Frosting? Well, last week work had a carrot cake to celebrate several birthdays all happening within a few days of each other. I was really craving sweet things that day, so I had a piece and thoroughly enjoyed the frosting (even if it WAS faux-shortening-buttercream). Then I was…done. I didn’t want any more frosting.

I craved a doughnut last week. My husband and I got a dozen mixed from Krispy Kreme, and an apple fritter. The apple fritter wasn’t worth eating, so I tossed it. The traditional unglazed cake that I got two of? Nasty, not worth eating, so I tossed them. I ended up eating two plain glazed and a maple bar in the space of three or four days. Finis. I probably wouldn’t eat a doughnut now if you sat one in front of me (maybe a doughnut hole, though).

Chips? Last week was an “I need ‘junk’ food week” – I pulled out one of the bags of Walker’s Sweet Thai Chilli crisps that I”ve been hoarding from our visit to the UK in January and ate it over the course of the week. This week? Not in the mood. This weekend was a fried chicken weekend – ate lots and now I’m done. If I were to eat anything right now, I’d go for a cucumber and tomato salad, or a mozzarella, basil, and tomato salad. I don’t want anything sweet.

I would crave those things more if I couldn’t have them – if I arbitrarily said that I couldn’t have chocolate and denied it to myself. As it is, I might want another doughnut in a month or two, or maybe not. I might want chips earlier than that, because I prefer savory treats, but I’m not in the mood for them now. There is no single food that I MUST HAVE every day (or want every day but deny myself) that I could give up. A few years ago, that wouldn’t have been true.

Progress has been made. Slow progress, but progress. For me, that is. Obviously there are those who find food restrictions a spiritual experience, and I’m glad that works for them – for me, it’s far more important that these days I don’t have anything that I could restrict and have it be meaningful in any way (namely, that I’d be thinking about it frequently enough to miss it, unless it were salad/vegetables/fruit!) because I allow myself to eat what I want, as much as I want, when I want it…and consequently have far fewer cravings in general and no cravings that I need ever feel that I must deny.

Do you give up food for Lent? What does it do for you?

Ouch

So, I appear to be metamorphosing into some sort of brain-addled version of me. I’ve had a headache, you see, for over a week now. Closer to two weeks, really, except for a weekend in there when it disappeared and then came promptly back again on Monday. It ebbs when I take ibuprofen, or it might be gone when I wake up, only to come drip drip dripping back into my head as I sit down at my desk. I’m tired, feeling nauseated over the last few days (no, I’m quite certain I’m not pregnant, so there’s no need to ask me if I could be) and I just want it to GO AWAY.

My mom and sister are prone to migraines. I’ve never had them, at least not that Im aware of, until I had two visual/aura migraines earlier this year (flashing light but no pain), but I’m wondering if this is some kind of low-grade migraine that’s driving me ’round the bend. Because seriously. GO AWAY.

GO AWAY! Is that clear?!

Yes, I have an appointment with my doctor next week. In the meantime, I’ve taken one of a colleague’s stash of Excedrin Migraine to see if it helps. I’ve got two projects due in a week, never mind work, and a little boy, and and and…

GO AWAY. HEADACHE GO AWAY.

The sick thing is, I’m vacillating between terror that IT’S A TUMOR! and terror that IT’S HIGH BLOOD PRESSURE BECAUSE I’M FAT! and, really, hypochondria is no fun.

Argh. Return to your normally scheduled happy programming!

The Great Tumblr Size 6 Debate Of 2011 [tm] rages on and I’d like to ask a question. Seriously. Who has been told that they are too thin for FA? Seriously.

I don’t mean “who’s been told that, objectively speaking, they aren’t fat enough to post in a fat-specific space.” I want to know who actually, seriously, has been told “sorry, you’re not fat enough to be in FA” because, honestly, I’ve never seen that in comments in the Fatosphere anywhere, ever, and I’m trying to get my head around the notion.

Please comment (don’t worry, I won’t flame you) because I honestly want to know where this is happening, because I truly haven’t seen it and it’s starting to drive me a little nuts. People keep saying they’ve been marginalized by FA but I have yet to see a concrete example of this happening.

Masquerade

I don’t do book reviews, librarian-in-training or not. I love that there are people out there who can sum up their feelings on books so beautifully, without making it sound like a book report, but I don’t have it in me to put books (my friends, companions, and escapist activity) under the microscope the way I do with a piece of art. It’s not my gift, and that’s okay.

It doesn’t mean, however, that books don’t leave me thoughtful. I’ve just finished The Elegance of the Hedgehog, by Muriel Barbery, and, while I very much enjoyed it, it’s also far more thought-provoking than most of the fiction I read, perhaps because I see echoes of myself in both of the protagonists: the fat concierge who hides her erudition under a cloak of false normalcy and the twelve-year-old girl, who hides her brilliance under a cloak of assumed stupidity and mediocrity.

My fat coat (I don’t mean to imply that there’s a Li’l Thin Heidi under there, mind you) hides my complexities beautifully. So does my job title. Administrative Assistant. The fat administrative assistant in her slightly-overly-casual Business Casual, doing her filing, “responding in a professional manner to e-mails and phone calls,” and trying to please everyone at once. I know what people see and think when they look at me. They like to walk up to the reception desk, where I cover while the receptionist is on her breaks, and cheerfully address me by her name, as if a name tag on a desk must automatically belong to the person currently sitting at that desk.

Really, though, we might as well be interchangeable. Does it matter if my name is Heidi, or Margaret, or Fido? In our American society, so full of ridiculously over-friendly gestures, hello-how-are-yous that don’t require (or in any way desire) an answer, you are Rich (and therefore important) or Poor-to-Middling (and therefore anonymous). Add the fat body on to that and I’m an invisible whale, strolling along the street or sitting at a reception desk making a life out of not being noticed.

In my office, I have four plants (one that I’m trying to help recover from a mystery ailment) and six things hanging on my wall that scream my identity to anybody who cares to notice. Most don’t, of course. Behind me is a Lowry painting, The Sea.

Across from me are an old poster of Octopus Week at the Seattle Aquarium (I can’t take this down, even though it was for 2009, because my son has an identical one on his bedroom wall and looks for the one on my office wall every time he comes in) and a print of a watercolor of boats. A Van Dael still life, a nifty calendar that has 24 different interchangeable images, and my second-ever mosaic are on the wall opposite the door.

The objects I hang on my walls aren’t just generic, run-of-the-mill Muzak-equivalent art. As someone who is more visual than anything (one of my greatest nightmares would be losing my sight), who I am is up on that wall but when I’m out and about, or even sitting in my office, I suspect no one sees “MA in art history; had a BRILLIANT original idea about a 500-year-old engraving that no other art historian appears ever to have articulated in print; quirky sense of humor; knows Jane Eyre and the Dune trilogy almost equivalently well; thinks often and fluently.”

It’s so easy to hide behind titles, and fatness, and lack-of-fashion. So easy to melt into no one and nothing and to have assumptions made about you because of it. I find myself wondering how many people I underestimate because, to me, they fade into background static; invisible masses taking up space but making no imprint at all on my consciousness.

Words: They Haz A Meening

I’ve been watching the furor over the chubby chicks post (gah, do I find tumblr annoyingly hard to follow) but the following has been building up for weeks? months? now, as various people have expressed feelings of “I’m too fat for FA!” “I’m too thin for FA!” “Why do the DEATHFATS! want their own space?!” “Reverse fatty discrimination!” in various ways, shapes, and forms…

My response, cut, pasted, and edited from a comment left elsewhere:

My heart breaks that a girl like the one that’s been the subject of zillions (a technical term) of tumbler posts so far considers herself chubby but that doesn’t give her the right to appropriate a space that belongs to people who DO break the societal norm in visible, obvious ways. That she was flamed for posting her photo in that space is reprehensible and cruel (as are many flamewars) but it doesn’t mean that words don’t mean things. They do.

I am fat. I’m somewhere over 300 pounds, and I wear anything from a 26-30 (mostly in the 28-30 bracket). I experience life as a fat, and as awful as it may feel for Photo Girl [tm] to be a size 6, she has never had to be terrified that she won’t fit in her plane seat, or check out the various types of seating in a restaurant to make sure that she’s not sitting on too fragile a chair (or one with arms that are too tight). She’s never sobbed because her only choices, when she comes down to it, are plus-size stores (and, at my weight, not even all of those), at least assuming that she lives somewhere in the West.

She may well have sobbed over her weight. She may find it tragically awful and hate her body. I get that and I’m very sorry. But she is not chubby. The fact that she claims she is illustrates how screwed up society is and fighting back against that is important…but it doesn’t negate the fact that I, as an undeniably fat person, am under no obligation to see her as a sister in experiencing fat discrimination. A sister in body hatred and warped body images, yes, but NOT a fellow fat.

It is offensive when not-fat people around me complain about their “pinch an inch” bellies, claiming that this makes them fat (not chubby, mind you, OMG DIET NOW FAT.) It is triggering when someone who is thin complains that she can’t eat the “evil food” in the staff lounge…because the implication, of course, is that eating it, and potentially getting fat, is itself evil. I, by extension, am evil, because I am fat. Fat. DEATHFAT!

“Chubby” is in the eye of the beholder, true, but simply thinking that you are chubby does not make it so. Lots of women have curves. Pot bellies, of varying sizes. Breasts, of varying sizes. Hips and butts of varying sizes. Having a round tummy, or breasts, or butt, does not make you “chubby” or “fat” – “chubby” may technically MEAN “rounded and fleshy” if you look it up in a dictionary but what it actually means, in society, is “too rounded and fleshy.” The girl in the photo may feel chubby, but societally-speaking, she is not.

I can empathize sincerely with my much-smaller friends’ body issues while still pointing out that I am larger than all of them, save a few online, and that causes specific problems for me (and others like me) that *they do not share.* That’s not discrimination against them, or her…that’s the fact of the matter. My lived experience as a fat woman is facing the realities of my size, and the hatred of society for my body, every single day. I cannot step into a grocery store without seeing the magazines that vilify people who are MUCH smaller than me as having “let themselves go.” Everything I put into my cart at that store can be considered by the people around me as up for their judgment: she’s eating a salad, good, maybe she’s dieting! ew, gross, why would that fat lady be getting Cheetos? GOD, that’s why she’s so fat! I wonder if her kid’s going to end up fat like her. ugh. if I were that size, I’d kill myself.

We’ve heard this time and time again on the Fatosphere. My experience is nothing new (and not nearly as bad as many fellow fats’ horror stories) but there’s this persistent need by people who are much smaller to try to claim that they’ve got it as bad as someone like me, who flies only despite near panic attacks about whether or not I’ll fit in a seat. You may have faced discrimination, and I’m very sorry. We, as a society, need to work on that and the Fatosphere is a great place to do it. However, if I point out that there are lived realities that you do NOT experience, not being a deathfat, it’s not exclusionary on my part, or some kind of “my discrimination is worse than your discrimination!” It simply is a fact, because you can fit in that airplane seat and maybe I can’t.

I don’t see any reason why the Fatosphere can’t have both large and small group spaces, where people discuss greater societal issues and issues specific to certain groups (where DO in-betweenies/smaller fats shop, and particularly the petite ones like my mother?) But please, please don’t try to imply that a size six has the right to call herself “fat” without that being at all hurtful to those of us who don’t just feel fat (yes, I know that really sucks), but who actually ARE fat and face very real challenges and discrimination because of it.

Sometimes we need spaces to ourselves. It doesn’t mean we don’t like you. It means we’re not all exactly the same. As I tell my little boy on a regular basis, we all come in different shapes and sizes, and isn’t that wonderful?

Let me re-state that: If I need a space to be with other DEATHFATS!, so that there is ONE place in my life where I don’t feel a surge of jealousy when my size 4 sister complains that she can’t find any clothes, because they’re all too big for her, or where a size 18 claims that because an ultrasound never hurt HER, she can’t understand why it would hurt ME (and that I must be totally overreacting and lying to say it does), well, it doesn’t mean I don’t respect those life experiences and sympathize with my sister. It means that, for one teeny, tiny portion of my day, I need a space for myself that is comforting, loving, and completely understanding.

Okay, bring on the dissent. I’m sure it’s out there! No flaming, please.

Infinite Rounds

I’m heading back to see my therapist next Saturday; I have a mosaic workshop this Saturday and her calendar was booked anyway, so it was all good. So to speak.

Last night I headed to the chiropractor because my lower back has been killing me and, as she announced to me when I came in, “Today is a DEEP WORK DAY, so just watch out!” Deep work it was. Painful, horrible, deep spasm-killing work in those places on my back under my ribs that always hurt when you push on them. While she was working it was all I could do not to whimper (and I have a pretty high tolerance for pain).

I’ve heard people talk about emotion/pain being stored in the body and I’ve always found it pretty woo-woo but when she finished, I felt limp and washed out, with a deep need to cry, not because of what she’d done but because I’ve been saving it up for weeks/months/years/decades. There in the muscles, where they knot and spasm, are all the horrible things I think about myself and other people but never let myself say, except when I’m shredding myself to pieces in the privacy of my own mind.

It makes me angry, truly, and I know I’ve said this before, that these things keep coming back and coming back. A dear friend has been in therapy twice over the last couple of years and said that she’d worked out the issues she’s had in the past with her mom and, essentially, that it’s all done and dusted. I am pleased for her, of course, but find myself raging that it’s so much harder for me; that I keep revisiting the old pain over and over again. I’m on my fifth (or is it sixth?) therapist in my lifetime and with each one, I have been as honest as I knew how to be, as intent on healing as I could be, and still the darkness lurks within; the spiral has at least another round left in her, and I just want to be better, already. To not be broken. To not fear the hormonal surges of PMS (massive suicidal ideation this month, although no action, obviously). To be content in my own body, in my own home, in my own workplace, and in my own world.

I’m scared that on one of these spirals, it’ll be the last time – that I’ll finally just get tired of fighting it and…let go. I do not want that. My therapist is wonderful but I do not want to need to go back to her.

I want my brokenness to be done and dusted and I am angry with the universe that it’s not. I’m angry with myself that I keep revisiting it over and over, no matter how hard I fight it, how much money I pay to therapists, how many times I fight the deep urge to stayhomepretendyou’resickcallandcancelandeatyourselfintooblivion and force myself to GO to the therapy. I want the next crying session to be the last crying session.

I want to be better. Now. I’ve been fighting depression a long, long time and I’ve fought it as hard as I can, with every shred of bone and muscle in my body. When is enough enough?!

I have to admit it…I scroll past most of the fatshion posts on the Notes feed. I mostly…don’t care. Most of the places highlighted don’t sell things in my size. As a 28/30/4X, it’s hard to find even online stores for my size and most of the ones that do sell that size are all about the polyester, and the bling, and the animal prints (some people look great in these…I hate them and always have).

But sometimes I am envious of people who are fat and just look put together. This morning, a fat woman got on my bus just before we entered the downtown bus tunnel. She was approximately my size (maybe a bit smaller? I still have a hard time judging my size) and she was wearing a simple outfit but it looked GREAT on her. Jeans, a long-sleeved white t-shirt, red sweater-coat-wrap-thing, a cute necklace and the best. bag. ever.

Kate Spade All Typed Up Clyde bag

So, I’m just not a purse fiend, or a shoe fiend, or a fashion fiend, but that bag made me happy. And covetous. Beautifully red, with a black patent leather handle, and A TYPEWRITER KEYBOARD. I could have grabbed that bag and run off with it (if my foot weren’t still hurting from walking a million zillion miles after the Sounders match last night because the buggers didn’t have the south exit doors open and we had to walk ALL AROUND THE STADIUM before heading off to my dad’s favorite free parking, which is a ZILLION MILES AWAY and it was POURING RAIN THE WHOLE TIME and the ARM OF MY COAT IS STILL SOAKING WET…and…I digress).

Seriously, though, I lusted after her fashion sense, her bag, and just that knowledge that I assume she must have of what looks good on her body and is comfortable. I struggle so hard to find clothing that I really love, which fits my body well, isn’t Old Lady Granny or Cool Fatshionista [tm]* I wanted her outfit SO badly.

And, incidentally, I wanted her bra. I just bought new bras from Decent Exposures, which are very comfy but NOT good for support. Seriously. WHERE DO YOU PEOPLE BUY BRAS? I was so tempted to just ask her…but asking a complete stranger where she got her bag and asking a complete stranger where she got her bra are entirely different propositions. I want my breasts SUPPORTED and up where they make nice lines in tailored shirts, not spread out across my chest so that they go flat. I’ve hated underwire FOREVER but seriously…is underwire the only way to get a supportive bra with shape? What DO you 42H fatshionistas do for this?!

I can’t afford that bag but if I could…

*I admire you fatshionista ladies, and I think fatshion is wonderful, I do, but I’m not hip, chic, or cool. I’m about traditional, clean-lined styling in natural fabrics with cute little details and NEVER WEARING HEELS EVER.

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