Friday night, the end of a very long week, the end of a very long month. I felt like going clothes shopping this evening as a sort of reward, and because I desperately needed comfortable pants in black and navy. I love clothes shopping when I actually need new clothes. I had this feeling I'd find something good if I went to Nordstrom's. This is my superpower, you see: I know whether or not I will find clothing in my size that fits and looks good any time I think about going shopping. I feel the clothing being put out on shelves and I can practically smell the felt pen as the clerks mark down the prices on the tags. I swear this is true. Tonight, I knew I'd find pants if I went looking for them. And I did. I found four pair at half off in my odd, uncommon size (Large Petite, darlings. I'm plump, and I'm short, not a popular combo for most manufacturers).
Then I found a pair of John's favorite jeans in his somewhat uncommon size. There was one pair left. Laugh at me all you want, call me deluded, but my Sixth Shopping Sense has never let me down yet.
This business of being a Large Petite (kind of like Jumbo Shrimp, isn't it?) means most large-size clothing is way too long if it fits me around the waist. I can't tell you how sick and tired I am of going around hiking up my pants surreptitiously so they don't drag on the ground. Sure, my good pants I get tailored, but criminy, who wants to pay an extra $10 to get a $30 pair of leisure pants hemmed? Pshaw. I usually sacrifice my dignity rather than my pocketbook when it comes to non-dressy clothing. Lately, though, I've been utterly fed up about it. Thus my gleefulness at finding the perfect pants, an otherwise mundane achievement.
Things have been pretty routine around here. Up at eight, commute, work, commute, check email, feed wailing cats, walk delighted dog, feed husband and self, chores, more email, MOO, diary, walk dog again, read, bed by midnight. On the weekends I seem to be busier than usual which does not please me but since I agreed to do all those things I can't get too mad about it. Sleeping in is hard, all of a sudden. I keep waking up fearful that I'm late for work. Though when I was at my folks' house last weekend I slept almost 11 hours one night. I guess I knew subconsciously that neither cats nor routine would interrupt me. It was wonderful. God, I love sleeping.
I still haven't spoken directly with the vets at UC Davis about Dixie and surgery. We played phone tag this week. Fear sits at the base of my spine, lurking but not crippling me. I can't bear thinking about the future. So I don't.
Went to take a dip in the hot tub and had to run gagging from the room after 10 minutes. Someone doubled the dose of chlorine, I think. My lungs burned for an hour afterwards, and odd little sticky green junk was stuck to my body. I think they used chlorine chips and some of them didn't dissolve properly. I washed my bathing suit promptly because it was reeking of chlorine. Unfortunately, I didn't mention to John that my suit was in the wash and he put all of the wet things in the dryer. I shrieked and ran to pull it out when I heard the dryer going. It had been in there about 15 minutes. Thank goodness it didn't burst into flame, which can happen with the funky components of bathing suit material. It did, however, leach the black out, and my formerly black bathing suit is now gunmetal grey. I'm telling myself it looks like a fashion statement. Grey is in, you know.
That's right. I do not want to go shopping for a new bathing suit. My superpower does not extend to stretchy fabrics that make me look like a burrito in drag. Hmph.
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