Let's Talk About Undies

A few weeks after my wedding, two dear friends of mine came to visit me.

For the protection of the innocent, these two friends shall remain nameless in the following story.

Let's just call them the Undie Fairies.

So, the Undie Fairies came to see us, and, while my husband was at work one day, they set about tearing apart our bedroom.

Or, more specifically, our dresser drawers.

Or, even more specifically, my underwear drawer.

The hemmed and hawed and collectively sighed.

And then they threw away almost every piece of underwear I owned.

You see, apparently, I didn't own the appropriate underwear for a married woman.

Apparently, husbands don't like to see their wives don panties with holes, drooping elastic, and, um, stains (Come on, it happens! We are women, not saints!)

And, apparently, one is not supposed to hold onto to undies they've owned since middle school.

Sigh. It was a learning experience for us all.

Anyways, after hauling a trash bag of underthings to the Dumpster, my friends proceeded to drag me off to Victoria's Secret, where I was forced to buy a whole manner of new undies.

Cotton and lace and panty-line-less undies.

I was properly chastened. And warned never to keep underwear so old that they no longer looked like panties upon a first glance.

That was two years ago.

And, save the occasional bargain pair purchased at Gap here or there, I haven't really kept up my end of the deal.

I still own those undies I purchased two years ago.

Though now, I have to say, they don't look at all the same.

Some have holes, some have lost elasticity, and some, um, are stained. (Ewwww!)

I'm not sure if it's the craftsmanship or the owner, honestly.

Though, I have to admit, I'm pretty hard on underwear, seeing as I spend almost a full work day at a gym, where I'm contorting my lower and larger half into a variety of shapes.

Still, no matter how you slice it, nice undies elude me.

I find it horrendous how expensive they can be, especially since no one in the world can see them. (Heck, after two years of marriage, I'm not so sure my husband even notices my underwear.)

So, when it comes to dropping dough on some new drawers, I'm hesitant. Honestly, I'd rather spend my money on a nice pair of jeans, thank you very much.

Still, every underwear slob has there breaking point.

And mine happened this weekend.

After finally venturing outside my home after the Great Vomit of 2010, I went to Target to browse for flannel bedsheets.

Upon arriving there, I immediately had to use the facilities. And, so, upon reaching said facilities, I did my business, all while staring point-blank at a pair of my two-year-old underwear, stretched unkindly around my knees.

I'll admit it: I grimaced.

And then my phone went off.

It was a pre-set phone call, coming from my doctor's office, reminding me that I had an appointment this Wednesday.

A "ladies appointment," if you know what I mean.

In other words, it was a sign from God.

Which is why, upon washing my hands and leaving said bathroom, I made a bee-line for the lingerie section, where I proceeded to purchase two new 5-packs of undies post haste.

Not for my me.

Not for my husband.

But for my doctor.

My female, coudn't-care-less doctor.

You know, the really important person in this relationship.

***

So you can imagine my shock and surprise when I returned home an hour later, removed all 10 pairs of panties from the package, and threw them immediately in the washing machine, only to retrieve them from the dryer hours later and realize that, in my haste at not embarrassing myself at the doctor's office, I'd bought 10 pairs of extra-large panties.

And I do mean EXTRA-LARGE.

(Which, in case anyone cares, is in fact several sizes too large for my rear. My behind is big, but it's not quite that big. Yet.)

Still, I didn't let that stop me.

Because guess what size underwear I'm rocking this morning?

XL.

Very roomy, but quite comfortable, I have to say.

My Undie Fairy friends are dying right now, let me tell you.

Sorry, girls. I tried, really.

But, it seems, when it comes to underwear, I can't win.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Inadvertent Shop-Lifting

While my college roomie Blair was here, we did our fair share of retail therapy.

Blair is starting work at a school up in New Jersey as a first-grade teacher this year.

And, as a newly retired teacher myself, I realized that all I own is classroom-appropriate clothing.

I needed something more casual in my wardrobe. And stat.

So, we set out shopping last week at all our favorite haunts: Old Navy, TJ Maxx, and Target.

Then, because we could, we hit the outlet stores here in town.

Blair found her weight in teacher's clothing.

And me? I found nothing.

Honestly, I was darn proud of myself, too. I made it in and out of several of my favorite outlet stores without spending a cent.

My restraint rivaled that of a nun, I tell you.

Until, that is, we headed home. And passed right by the G*p Outlet.

Admittedly, it's a personal weakness of mine. But with my chaste-like shopping abilities that day, I figured I was safe.

So we walked in the G*p's door, and I promptly fell in love with a deep-purple bohemian skirt draped on the store's front display.

Seeing as how it was positioned right in the front of the store, with nary a "Sale" sign to be found in the near proximity, I knew it wasn't marked down. It was new merchandise, in fact.

But I picked it up anyway, marveling at it's beauty, wondering how in the world the G*p had created a skirt that was so quintessentially "me."

I believe my exact words to Blair were, "It's like I just threw up and produced this skirt."

So I checked the price.

It was reasonable. A little expensive. But reasonable.

But, still, it was definitely not on sale.

Which, basically, breaks every shopping rule in my book.

I don't buy anything unless it's on sale.

Groceries? Sure. Gas? Vitamins? OK.

That stuff, I'll pay full-price for.

But clothing? Vacations? Any and all non-necessary, semi-luxury items? They better be marked down or clearance-d if they want this consumer's business.

But this skirt? I loved. I mean, I adored it. It was so cute. And so me.

So I picked it up and took it about the store with me.

I grabbed a pair of shorts and a tank top; tried the shorts on and remembered yet again why I don't wear shorts; OK-d the cute, discounted tank, and headed to the register, my rationale being that perhaps God would smile upon me and allow my precious skirt to ring up as inadvertently marked down.

I marched up to the counter with Blair in tow and handed the cashier - a young 19-year-old guy - the tank top and skirt.

He looked non-plussed, so I figured I'd just be straight with him:

"Before you ring me up, can you check the price on this skirt? I'm hoping I'll get lucky, and it's marked down. But if it's not, I don't want it. I really only want to buy it if it's on sale."

The guy nodded at me and proceeded to price-check. But not before my friend Blair, always the requisite joker, spoke up:

"Actually, if you could just mark it down for us, that would be awesome. Can you do that? Do you have that kind of power? Could you just give us a discount? I mean, why not? Right?"

The cashier stopped and pondered what seemed to be our very existence.

Then, quietly, he whispered, "Actually, I can. If anyone asks, you're a Triple-A member."

And he rang the skirt up with a 20-percent discount.

I gasped and clapped my hands with glee. Blair thanked him profusely.

Then, he proceeded to total my purchases and bag up my skirt with the tank top.

Realizing what was happening, I jumped in with my fair dose of naivete.

"Oh, um, you forgot to ring up my tank top," I said.

"Shhhhh!" he exclaimed, not rectifying his mistake at all and popping the now-free shirt into my shopping bag anyway.

Blair nodded her head sagely, as if this happens to her all the time. I stared, shocked.

So, of course, I had to look a gift horse in the mouth.

As he ran my debit card, I whispered to him, "Has the G*p wronged you in some way recently or something?"

He laughed and scoffed.

"Of course they have! But I only have four more days working here and then I leave for school! What are they going to do with me now? Fire me? Bring it on!"

I laughed uproariously at this point, thanked the poor kid again, and whispered to Blair, "Lesson learned for the day: Don't work at the G*p."

We then made it out the door before bursting into shocked and semi-scared laughter.

I told Blair that the poor kid must really hate his summer job, or that we're just a lot cuter than we thought.

Blair nodded in agreement, and then we chuckled onward.

But we sobered up pretty quickly, too.

Our collective conscience, it seemed, had finally caught up with us.

I turned to Blair and asked, "Seriously, did we just aid and abet a theft?"

Blair wondered if hidden cameras had caught our semi-illicit actions.

And I worried that, just by asking for a discount, we'd led that poor young college student astray, down a path of theft and corporate deception he'd never recover from.

I don't want that kind of guilt on my head, I tell you.

Granted, we didn't turn around, head back to the store, or take back the clothing. Obviously, we weren't feeling that guilty.

Instead, we drove away, and I've wore both of my new G*p items over the past few days.

But, admittedly, not without a little bit of self-loathing.

Should I have insisted on paying for the shirt? Was I out-of-line asking for special treatment in the first place?

Or, in reality, was it just smart shopping? Is this what the Gap deserves for supposedly treating their employees so poorly?

Perhaps it never hurts to ask. Or perhaps I'll pay for this later in life.

By, say, paying full-price on all future shopping endeavors.

Oh, the shame.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Workout Wednesday: Next time, I'll go pants-less

Monday night, I got to the gym just in time to throw on my clothes and go teach two classes.

I was substituting for another instructor who taught a Power Cardio Hour before I taught my normal 60-person Body Pump class.

I had about 100 harried gym members to deal with, and I was already sweating from a long day at the school.

So I threw on my sports bra and tank top, whipped off my teacher's skirt, and then grabbed for my capri running tights.

I stuck my right leg in, and...

Uh-oh.

I couldn't even pull the pants past my calf.

What was going on here? I wondered. Had I gained a whole bunch of weight since last week, when I wore these very same pants?

I held them up for inspection and only then realized what I was up against:

A teeny, tiny, child-sized pair of pink and black leggings.

Or, in actuality, a teeny, tiny formerly adult-sized pair of pink and black leggings that had been shrunk by the wash into pants that may or may not fit a pre-pubescent 11 year old.

Lordy be. Now I'd really gone and done it.

Breaking all rules and regulations I normally hold about drying my cotton and spandex workout gear in the dryer (Only air dry! I repeat: Only air dry!) I'd apparently gone and mechanically dried these poor suckers into infant-like shrinkage accidentally, thus leaving me standing in the locker room, five minutes away from teaching 100+ members for 2.5 hours, pants-less.

Sans pants.

Lacking coverage on my bottom half of any form, including, but not limited to, shorts, sweats, tights, leggings, pantyhose, or pantaloons.

Not. Good.

Still, not being one to admit defeat easily, I tackled the child-sized tights again.

This time, I started with the left leg. I inched the pants up millimeter by millimeter, grabbing at any give in the fabric, stretching it within an inch of it's life, and moving it up my calf, then my knee, then my thigh.

Until, finally, I got the pants on.

Barely.

But still, I did get them on.

They were so tight that I'm pretty sure they were cutting off circulation to my thighs where the spandex was sharply jutting into the skin right below my rear's cheeks.

The normally black spandex was stretched so thin it looked like a medium-light shade of gray.

And you could see the hairs growing off my thighs, those suckers were so tight.

I could barely walk myself over to the locker-room mirror to inspect the damage. Frankly, I was lucky I hadn't busted a seam getting them on.

But no matter.

Because in T-minus two minutes, I was going to be lunging and squatting and doing jumping jacks.

All in the World's Smallest Pants, which were currently tightly enveloping the biggest part of my body.

Oh, heavens.

I needed a quick fix. And fast.

I went out to the gym's front desk, or, rather, sidled sideways so as not to angrily burst forth through the pants, a la, The Hulk.

I bought a men's extra-large, long-sleeve T-shirt.

I tied the thing tightly around my waist, until I resembled a woman wearing too-small pants and one awkward fitting skirt.

And then, I went upstairs and took those tight pants and the resulting embarrassment like a (wo)man.

I taught my classes.

Without even splitting a seam. (Although I did lose feeling in my left thigh for a good 20 minutes during the Body Pump class, but tight-pants-wearers can't be choosers.)

Still, I was pretty darn proud of my pants and my legs.

Until I was packing up after the classes were over and a woman came up and asked me where I got those "cute gray tights."

I ended up caving and told her the whole story, laughing all the while.

She laughed with me.

We began to part ways.

But then she turned back around for one final word.

"Ah! No big deal! Next time, just go pants-less!" she said, before smacking me on the rear and walking out.

***

Yep, this really happened. And with it, I've reached an all-new wardrobe-malfunctioning low.

Oh, heavens.

Shows you people will really say anything. Or wear anything, come to think of it.

That's it for me today. Next week, we'll be featuring Workout Wednesday: Q&A. So feel free to post any questions you may have below.

And until then, Happy Exercising!

Naked Driver Needs Your Help

I get to see my husband in two days.

Two. Days.

Pardon me while I squeal with glee.

Words can't quite do my excitement justice.

I'm beyond elated. I'm ecstatic. I'm over-the-moon pumped.

The hubs finished boot camp this past weekend and arrived in South Carolina, at the base that will be our future home in a little less than six weeks.

And, blessedly and just in the nick of time, I get to spend this upcoming weekend with him.

Thursday through Sunday, I will be in South Carolina. With my other half. In person. Together.

Hold on. I feel another gleeful squeal coming on.

Nothing could be better, in my mind, than what lies ahead of me in little over 48 hours.

Unless you consider me staying there forever, leaving some invisible force to pack up all our belongings and carry them up the interstate to us while little elves teach my students for the remaining six weeks of the school year. That, my friends, is my real dream. A girl can dream...

Still, in all honesty, it's pretty darn awesome, and I'm really ready for it to be Thursday morning, when everyone will find me zipping up the highway to my honey, latte in hand and tunes blaring from the radio.

Can't you just picture it?

You can, can't you?

Well, here's the thing...

I can't.

I mean, yeah, sure, I can see my car. And my hand holding a coffee cup. And the Southern sunshine beaming down on Interstate 95.

But that's where the day-dreaming stops. Because if I let myself go too far, my fantasy runs smack-dab into a naked woman, who, for some ungodly reason, is driving my Nissan.

And, for some even more ungodly reason, that woman in the buff is yours truly.

Me.

Myself.

I.

A la natural.

Nekkid.

Indisposed.

Now, before you get too shocked, let me explain a little further:

I'm not some burgeoning nudist. No sirree Bob.

It's just that, though every other agonizing detail of this trip has been worked out by my (fully clothed) mind already, I can't - for the life of me - figure out what to wear.

That minutiae keeps escaping me.

After all, this is a big deal, people.

I haven't seen my husband in 2.5 months. I've only spoken to him a total of five times since the end of February. The last time he laid eyes on me, I was blubbering mess, wearing 18 layers to survive the freakishly cold winter Florida was then experiencing.

I've got some image recovery to do.

To make matters worse, word on the street is that my husband is the thinnest he has ever been since adolescence. He weighs only a few more pounds than he did in high school. I've never even known him this skinny.

He's going to be tall, and built, and all kinds of thin.

And I'm going to look like a woman deranged who hasn't seen her husband in 10 weeks.

Frankly, the only thing I've got going for me is that he hasn't really seen any woman (who wasn't swathed in box-like, asexual Navy uniforms) in 70 days.

Seeing as I don't own anything box-life or asexual (I tend to favor flow-y and feminine), I think the odds are in my favor.

But that, my friends, is where my inspiration ends.

Because, really, I don't know what to wear.

And although I know he's my husband, who has seen me in all manner of dress, undress, fashion mistake and blissful coutoure (God bless my wedding dress), it's still a little nerve-wracking.

Like many a wife, I want him to see me as attractive when I come walking toward him.

OK, that's an understatement.

I actually want his eyes to pop out of his head, like a surprised Looney Tunes character, as his heart begins to race, while his conscious mind veritably screams, "Yozwers! Glad I married that one!"

But being that we will be meeting in a public place, I'd prefer to get this reaction without having to show off too much of the package, if you get my drift.

I'd also like to downplay my thighs and my stress-induced breakouts, if at all possible.

And while we're wishing on a star, I'd also like to eat full-fat ice cream that actually causes me to lose weight and become an instant size 2 the night before I head up the coast.

Let's see if we can make that happen, mmmkay?

It's go-time, people. We're t-minus two days out, and I haven't got a clue what to put on my body for The Big Meet-Up.

So of course I'm turning to my wonderful blogging friends - my go-to gals for all things fashionable and festive.

In other words, ladies, you've got a serious job to do.

So, honestly, what do I wear? What would you wear? What outfit will make my husband's tongue flop out of his mouth but won't shock the caps right off the surrounding sailors on the base?

Help me. Please.

Or there will be a naked lady driving through the southeastern states come Thursday morning.

Consider yourself warned.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Oh, the irony!

It takes an act of God to get me dressed on the weekends.

Saturday roles around and - I swear - my body actually repels all synthetic fabrics, under-wire undergarments, and form-fitting pants.

Once the weekend hits, you're likely to find me in an elastic waistband and an oversized sweatshirt that allows me to walk around sans bra more than anything else.

My body, just like my mind, needs a break.

So it was no surprise that last weekend, I walked into the grocery store wearing an old bathing suit covered with a one-size-too-big maxi dress.

A one-size-too-big strapless maxi dress.

A one-size-too-big, pink and purple maxi dress.

A one-size-too-big, pink and purple, TIE-DYED maxi dress.

Don't ask me why I still wear it.

Better yet, don't ask me why I still own it.

Because I'd be forced to tell you that that dress is my idea of heaven - it's big; it's comfy, and it affords me the ability to go stealthily bra-less. (Yes, my idea of heaven is a place where people don't need bras. Because God loves me, and I figure, he'll give me that sweet relief once I get there.)

So there I am, casually wandering the aisles of the otherwise empty grocery, grabbing yogurt and fruit and cereal, when I see her.

Wearing a buttoned-up polo shirt and crisp khaki pants.

The mother of two of my "favorite" students - one of which, you all may remember, once accused me of smoking mar*juana in my past.

I'll admit, I attempted to hide behind the condiments section. After all, I spend 40+ hours a week attempting to masquerade as an upstanding citizen and role-model to my small-town community by working as a high-school teacher. (Ha!)

But with my big pink-and-purple tie-dye virtually screaming, "Look at me! Look at me!" it couldn't be helped.

She saw me.

My face hung lower than my chest in my un-supportive dress. I'd been caught. Bra-less.

So, we had the inevitable teacher-parent conversation. We chatted about her darling children and their progress in school. My job. Her job. Graduation dates. The weather. Church that morning. What she was shopping for. What I was shopping for. My favorite squash recipe. Her favorite way to hide ground turkey in her husbands' preferred meaty dishes. Her younger children. My dogs. The neighborhood. What she was reading. The price of corn these days.

She oh-so-politely ignored my dress while I pretended to furiously scribble down her recipe for Mexican lasagna.

It was awkward.

Still, we finally managed to graciously part ways, each of us breathing a sigh of relief. The worst was over. We'd done our job as good Southern women and covered the four Fs of conversation - family, food, fun, and faith.

Mama would be proud.

I was just relieved she hadn't mentioned the dress.

Until I saw her son - my student - this week.

I told him I had had a nice conversation with his mom in the grocery store that weekend.

He laughed and said she had enjoyed talking to me, too. And then he laughed some more. Snickered, really.

"She also said you were wearing a crazy dress."

It was this point that I started praying, begging God to send help, a distraction, something.

"She told me she thinks you must have been quite the hippie back in the day."

It was at this point that I told God to "Forget the help! Just let the ground open up and swallow me whole and take me up to my bra-less heaven right now!"

But God didn't answer my prayers. And I was left wondering what to say to when, essentially, that was just the honest truth.

I mean, let's call a spade a spade.

If it walks like a duck, and talks like a duck, and is wearing pink-and-purple tie-dyed cotton...

***

The funny thing is, I returned home later that day to realize Brittany, over at Sweet, Sassy, and oh so Classy, had tagged me with the following Preppy Mafia award!
Literally, Britt, you are too sweet and kind! Your benefit and trust in my preppy fashion sense is most gracious. Although I'm sure I've let you down in many ways with the story I just recounted, and if you'd like to renounce my membership in the preppy mafia now, I totally understand.

That being said, I'm a good sport. And I thought, Heck! I'm not all hippie! I've got a little prep in my step now and again!

So why not play along (before they revoke my mafia membership) and answer the following preppy questions:

1. Who is your style icon?

source

Oh my. That's tough. I enjoy a big range of fashionable looks. I might have to go with Sarah Jessica Parker, mostly because she always looks comfortable and eclectic. I'll admit, I'm not nearly as brave as she is, but I do enjoy how she mixes chic pieces with cozy knits and pretty florals. The only difference is her shoes. I don't hear heels. I'm always a flats girl. Always.

2. What is your favorite socialite book?

Open admittance: I didn't know there were such things as "socialite books." My apologies. But never fear. I've now been properly schooled, and I will travel out and find one post-haste.

3. What is your favorite party theme?

Tea parties! Mostly because I love tea. And vintage china. And finger sandwiches. And lots and lots of bright, beautiful, mismatched dishes. And party dresses. And cardigans. And flowers. And ruffles. And antique silver. And...maybe I'm more preppy than I thought...

4. What is your go-to Halloween costume?

Well, I'd say a hippie, but...

In all seriousness, I'm not a huge fan of Halloween, and we really don't celebrate it. So I don't get dressed up. Sorry to be such a party-pooper. Horror and gore (and the color orange) are just not my thing.

5. What is the extravagance you just can't live without?

Books. I love to read, buy, and swap books. Although, apparently not socialite books, as I've been unaware of their existence up until now.

6. Who is the living person you admire?

I adore my parents, and I think they've raised a wonderful family and kept a wonderful home over the years that I'll never be able to replicate, no matter how hard I try.

7. What is my greatest fear?

Well, I'm a huge advocate of killing all snakes. Everywhere. Because I hate them. A lot.

But on a deeper note, I'd have to say losing my husband young. As dark as it sounds, with the hubs now in the military, I worry about something happening to him before we can have children, raise them, and grow old together. I don't want to be widow; I don't want to marry anyone else. My heart breaks for those who this has happened to already. They are much stronger than I could be; it would devastate me. (I know how ridiculous this sounds, but it's a fear of mine, nonetheless.)

8. What's the trait you dislike about yourself?

I sincerely lack patience when it comes to order and routine. Other people who don't see the method to my anal-retentive madness can inadvertently feel my wrath, and I hate that.

9. Which talent would you most like to have?

I have secret dreams of singing and dancing on Broadway. Which will never happen because I can neither sing nor dance. But I can dream. And sing "525,600 Minutes" in the shower over and over again.

1o. What is my greatest achievement?

Oh, tough one. I don't know. I have to admit that the most important things in my life were blessings, not achievements. My friends, my husband, my family, my faith, my jobs, my passion for exercise and literature. Those are what make my life beautiful, and I am so incredibly grateful for them all. But I was gifted all that by God. I didn't "achieve," per se, any of it.

So, to be honest, I don't know if I have a greatest achievement yet. But I do have a lot of blessings.

11. Who are the 10 people I'd like to tag with the Preppy Mafia award?

OK, I'm going to pass this along to some of my preppier friends....

Maria at Two Hearts Made Four
Anonymous Prep at Adventures of Anonymous Prep
Jess at All-American Jess
Heather from Beautiful Life
b.e.g. at Brown-eyed Girl
Maegan at Classy & Fabulous
Mrs. Potts at Experiments in a Galley Kitchen
Name Twin at Molly Lou Gifts
Shaina at Post Smith
Susannah at The Edwards Edition

Any of the rest of you want to embrace your inner prep? The award is yours, too! Consider yourself tagged!

***

Be back tomorrow with more ramblings! Happy Thursday!

Just in case you thought I had it all together...

One day, I dream about having it all together.

I dream about having the perfect purse, with the perfect jewelry, with the perfect shoes, with the perfectly coiffed hair, with the perfect - yet invisible - make-up, all enhancing the most perfectly perfect dress imaginable.

I dream of being timeless, classy, yet understated.

And then I wake-up and stumble out of bed.

I realize that it's March and still freakishly cold, even for Florida.

I realize that four hours of tossing and turning doesn't qualify as a "good night's rest."

And I realize that all that tossing and turning not only ruined the spring in my step, but also did a number on my once-tamed tresses.

It's a rude, and realistic, awakening.

Because I've only got 15 minutes to make my Teacher Self presentable.

I've only got 15 minutes to get rid of Tired, Cranky, Bed-Head-Crazy Brittany.

So I grab the first dress, tights, and sweater I can find. Which may or may not match.

I throw some earrings in my lobes and a necklace around my neck. Which may or may not match.

And, waiting till the very last minute, I throw two shoes on my feet. Which may or may not match.

Then I skedaddle.

Off to my day.

Where, it has to be said, I give thought to my appearance approximately zero percent of the time.

Frankly, I'm doing good if I remember to zip and tie everything up when I leave the bathroom.

I simply don't have time to check my frizzing hair, my growing chin-zit, or the coffee stain on my left boob.

Which is why I sometimes leave the house wearing something like this...
Go ahead. Take another look.
It's a shoe. My shoe. My shoe, which my dog bit a hole out of almost two years ago.

Classy, no? Takes casual footwear to a whole new level, doesn't it?

And yes, I totally wore it. To work. All day. Clearly visible for all the world to see.

I guess "having it all together" is relative, anyways.

***

Happy Thursday everyone!

What do I wear?

So, I've been invited.

To a little shindig.

Full of bloggers.

Who live in Florida.

Ahhhh!

I don't know if you all can comprehend how much I want to meet you all in real life. Like, seriously, if I had the money, I'd do my own little Tour de Blog, flying to all of you and getting to know your faces, your voices, your hearts.

In person.

But because I've never even so much as earned a singe frequent flyer mile, that dream is still a far cry from my reality.

So, I'm starting small.

Local, if you will.

Because Lil' Woman is hosting a Florida blogger get-together, and I think I'm going to attend!

It's tomorrow night - a night I happen to have available.

It's in the greater Orlando area - where I am currently spending the week with family.

It's a fun time to unite with other female bloggers - and I've got a husband who would much rather play his new XBox games with my brothers than hang with me.

So it sounds like I've got no other choice, right?

I couldn't be more thrilled.

But with this momentous occasion taking place in little less than 36 hours - and possibly because I'm back visiting the town and house I spent my high-school years living in - my crazy insecurities are coming out to play.

What will they think of me? Do they know how clearly my voice projects? Will they notice the five holiday pounds I've packed on since I entered Christmas Vacation World, where calories don't matter? Can they handle the fact that I hopelessly lose my keys and cell phone every time I place them in my purse, causing me to go on the Great Handbag Excavation of 2009 if I ever want to leave our restaurant rendevous point?

And then, the question that haunts all red-blooded women everywhere: WILL THEY LIKE WHAT I WEAR?

I mean, it's funny to think about the fact that I lay my soul out on this blog, over and over and over again, but the first chance I get to meet some of you blog-mates in person, I'm stressing out about my appearance.

As if it matters.

As if any of you, who touch my heart with your words and feelings, would ever judge me on something as silly as what I wear.

Still, I feel like the new kid who goes into the first day of school, wondering if I'll like the kid I'm assigned to sit next to; wondering if, above all else, they will really like me in return.

I'm totally the little girl who asks God, "Will anyone want to be my friend?"

Silly, right?

I know; I'm ridiculous.

But my mind is a bit blown right now.

I'm going to meet some of you in person. I'm going to get to hug some of you and laugh with some of you and finally talk to some of you, who honestly know what it is to be a blogger (while the rest of the world just laughs at our "little hobby.")

I'm so, so excited

And just a little bit nervous.

So.

Seriously.

What do I wear?

***

If anyone is interested in joining us on Wednesday night (Dec. 30,) feel free to comment below or shoot me an e-mail. I'll send you all the information Lil' Woman sent me. We'd love to have you join us if you live in the area or can make it for the night.

It will be a fun way to put some faces to some of the fabulous voices we get the pleasure of reading every day!

Happy Tuesday everyone!

Happy happy, joy joy!

Guess what, guess what?

The dear, sweet Jules over at Chic & Pink so graciously gave me the Happy 101 Award!

Isn't she a doll? Thank you, Jules!

This award, meant to be gifted to bloggers who make you smile, has two requirements.

1. List 10 things that make you happy
2. List 10 bloggers who brighten your day.

So, let's go for it, shall we?

10 Things Currently Making Me Happy (As a Clam)

1. The fact that we have six days of school left before Christmas break. And - Bonus Alert! - four of them are half days! Glory be! That being said, these next six days are going to be tough, tough, tough getting my students ready for semester exams. But after that, I have 2.5 weeks of amazing Christmas freedom! I. Can't. Wait.

2. The fact that I told told my students they "were like my kids" yesterday, and one of my 15 year olds immediately jumped in with, "Yay! I have a new mommy!"

3. The fact that my God-mother gave me a bunch of white, crocheted snowflakes last year, which, this year, I hung on my Christmas tree, on my window garland, and all over the house, making it a downright Winter Wonderland in my Florida home. They make me smile every time I come home.

4. The fact that I've managed to read two books this week. I worked hard - for my own sanity - to make reading for pleasure a priority this past week, and what do you know? It totally worked. I'm happier, and I've managed to chip away at the stack of material awaiting my attention.

5. The fact that I've managed to find some steals while I'm out shopping for Christmas gifts. I don't know if it's the tanked economy or what, but there are some great deals out there. And as we all know, finding a great deal can be downright exhilarating! I couldn't be happier with some of the items I've picked up for friends and family. (Steal Alert: Did you all know SteinMart is carrying Vera Bradley? Because they are! This Steal Alert comes courtesy of mother, who called me frantically the second she found a Vera wallet after meandering through her favorite store.)

6. The fact that I saw The Blindside and left the movie theater downright inspired. Granted, I cried through the entire movie, but I was still downright inspired. What an amazing (true) story.

7. The fact that I've become downright obsessed with tea. In an effort to cut down on my highly caffeinated coffee consumption, I've cut out my afternoon cup(s) of coffee and switched to green tea - when in dire straits - and herbal in all others. And I am loving it. It's delicious and warming and fulfilling. I've officially joined Team Tea! (Granted, without totally leaving Team Coffee. Sure, they may be conflicting alliances, but we're working it out. When it comes to warm beverages, I say, can't we all just get along?)

8. The fact that the series LOST resumes in LESS THAN TWO MONTHS! AND I SAW A PREVIEW FOR IT SUNDAY NIGHT! AND I SCREAMED ALOUD AT 10 P.M. BECAUSE I WAS SO EXCITED BECAUSE IT IS LOST, FOR GOODNESS' SAKE! AHHHHH!!!

9. The fact that I found - gasp!- brown leggings that were not made for a woman who happens to be six months pregnant. Miracles do happen!

10. The fact that I had pie last night. I love pie.

So now, for the 10 dear blog friends who brighten my day when I need it most:
New blog friends Laura, at Awake Amidst A Dream, and Erin, at Tobin Tales
My blog friends turned 6 a.m.-panicked-text-message friends Gina, at Namaste By Day, Sam, at The Ruby Turtle Hippie Times, and Katie, at Loves of Life
A (very brave) soon-to-be substitute teacher, Brittany, at Tales of a Southern Belle and Her Beau
My Name Twins at Molly Lou Gifts and Notes from the Grove
Sweet blog buddies, whose comments constantly make me smile, Mrs. Bee at the Secret Life of Sas and Lex, b.e.g. at brown eyed girl, Sus from The Edwards Edition, and Lyr from Breaking Through

I know, I know. That's 12 women, not 10. But give me a break.

I'm an English teacher.

Math? Not. My. Thing. And trust me, if I had my way, I'd keep going, giving it to you all and re-giving it to those of you that I know already got it!

Because you all - and I say this quite seriously - brighten my day to no end. So thank you, all of you, for adding sparkle and smiles to days that sometimes need it desperately!

I so appreciate it. And all of you!

So until tomorrow....

Happy Thursday!

Living dangerously. And coldly.

When we moved to our current home back in August, it was approximately 145 degrees here in bright, sunny North Florida.

We couldn't take off enough clothes to cool down.

It was a "naked sweat," in other words.

So we didn't even think twice when the owners of the home we're living in told us that the heat was not electric but was, in fact, gas - a fact that would require us to have a "gas man/woman," if you will, come and fill our tank with more than $600 worth of gas before the not-so-long, cold winter, if we intended to use the heat at all this year.

So, we did what any normal, sweaty Floridian would when presented with our almost year-round enemy: Heat.

We decided we wouldn't use any of it this winter.

"We don't need no stinkin' heat!" we proclaimed.

Now, before all the rest of you located at higher latitudes start to laugh at the notion of Floridians really ever needing heat, let me just say this: It does freeze here during the winter. It is, after all, North Florida. So, yes, we don't have "snow days" or sub-zero temperatures, but we do still chip ice off our cars and experience degrees in the 'teens. It's cold enough to own two sets of clothing; winter clothes and summer clothes.

That being said, back in August, my summer-altered brain forgot all this; my summer-altered brain laughed at the notion of wearing anything with sleeves on it.

My summer-altered brain was hot.

We simply maintained that with enough layers, and with the body heat we'd collect under the blankets when sleeping, we'd be fine.

Worst-case scenario, we'd plug in those little space heaters when doing things like getting dressed and taking showers.

Sounds totally logical when you're sweating in a sundress, right?

Well, my friends, winter has come, and my summer-altered brain is gone.

I'm also seriously beginning to doubt my summer-altered decisions.

Because when I arose Sunday morning, the indoor thermometer said the house temperature was hopping between 45 and 50 degrees.

And me?

Well, let's just say I risked a bladder infection over lowering my bare bum onto an icy-cold toilet seat that morning, and I didn't find it at all funny when I clicked on the TV after church to find Cold Case re-runs playing away, oblivious to their own ironic presence.

The piece' de resistance was when the chicken breasts I started thawing for dinner defrosted faster in the refrigerator rather than out of it.

Because, baby, it's cold outside. And inside, for that matter.

Still, no omniscient TV show, frozen blocks of meat or frigid commode were going to deter this girl from her frugal winter. After all, we're Floridians? Who says we really need heat, right?

My husband does, that's who.

Yes, my husband says he wants us to turn on the heat.

Screw our well-thought-out frugal winter. The man has had enough of living on a budget, apparently. The boys wants the heat turned on. Stat.

But it's not because the boy is cold.

No sirree Bob.

My Arkansas-born boy wears shorts with sweatshirts - a poor fashion choice but a daring clothing combination nonetheless - even when its positively frigid outside. We jokingly call him a "walking furnace" around here, from time to time. My husband is not easily chilled.

So, even without the heater, the hubs isn't cold.

No, my husband wants the heat turned on for a whole different kind of reason, for a whole different kind of heat, if you will.

My husband, in fact, is sick of me being cold.

Or, more specifically, he's sick of me donning my new cold-weather-coping mechanism:

You see, I spent the entire weekend in pink-and-red, snowflake-printed fleece PJ pants; striped-blue, knee-high, booty fleece socks; an orange thermal shirt; a brown, knit beret; and my husbands' XXL navy hoodie.

I've been sleeping in this lovely ensemble. I've been eating in this lovely ensemble. I even decorated the Christmas tree - at 1 o'clock on a Saturday afternoon - in this lovely ensemble.

In essence, I look like a very warm circus freak.

A very warm circus freak who also enjoys looking like a shapeless lump of lounge-wear on her off days.

When he looks at me, I'm pretty sure he's wondering where his wife is, under all these layers of clothes.

I'm pretty sure he's wondering when the heat will return to the body that I may or may not still have, buried under all these layers of wool and fleece.

Sorry, honey.

I guess all I can tell you is: Expect your wife and her body to emerge in about three months.

Until then, don't you dare turn on that heat.

***

P.S. According to our weather forecast, we can expect high-60s, low-70s beginning tomorrow until the end of the week, when we'll get another freeze. Thanks to the fickle nature of Florida winters, it looks like I'll be able to lose the sweatshirt. The hubs will be thrilled.

P.P.S. I realize that using gas to heat, cook, and run a home is hardly novel to anybody else. But to me - and a lot of native Floridians - it is. I've never lived in a home where we used gas for anything. I've never even cooked on a gas stove. So while I'm sure I'll get some good-natured ribbing for this, trust me, I don't know the first thing about "filling up a gas tank."

P.P.S. In case you missed it, I had a guest post over at my dear friend Sam's blog, The Ruby Turtle Hippie Times, this past Saturday. She was kind of enough to let me ramble on about two of my favorite things: Christmas and books. So go on over and check it out if you get a chance.

Happy Monday everyone!

These pants were made for babies

I may or may not have taken a slight fashion risk.

I may or may not have made a bad clothing choice.

And I may or may not have knowingly purchased maternity clothing on Sunday when I am not, in the slightest bit, pregnant.

Yes, I knowingly purchased an article of clothing that openly bore the word "maternity" on it.

In fact, I knowingly purchased pants that openly bore the word "maternity" on them.

I embraced the elastic waistband knowingly; I wore the expanded belly pants of my own accord.

And no, not because I hate myself and want to remind myself, every time I looked down at my maternity-clad legs, that I am, indeed, sans child and lacking any real reason to wear the pants I'm wearing.

That would be entirely too masochistic; that would be entirely too logical. For me, anyways.

No, I knowingly bought and wore maternity pants, because, simply put, I'm stupid.

Or, rather, inflicted with baby brain without the baby. Which is kind of like gaining the baby weight without the baby.

So, in other words, there are no real excuses.

But anyways, back to my baby pants...

After church, on Sunday, I was roaming the aisles of - where else? - Target.

I was there to purchase a toothbrush for my husband, which is basically code for "Finding an Item We Kinda-Sorta Need So I Can Manage to Sneak in a Quick Trip to the Tarjay Clearance Racks."

So, toothbrush in hand, I picked my way through the clothing Target offered.

All in an effort to find an illustrious and well-hidden pair of brown leggings.

You see, I wear a lot of leggings. In North Florida, we often wake up in the winter to freezing temperatures, but we hit the low 70s by mid-day, only to drop back below freezing at night.

Layering is essential.

And leggings are the key to layering.

So, I own a few pairs: navy ones, gray ones, black ones, even banana yellow ones, which were an admitted poor choice, in hindsight, and one I'll never make again.

But oddly enough, for a girl who wears a lot of Earth tones, I lack a pair of brown leggings.

Mostly because Target and Old Navy never managed to keep a pair in stock, and it's not as if I'm about to venture away from my old-standby clothing suppliers anytime soon.

So, I was brown-leggings-less.

But hopeful.

And so, for the 13,00th time, I was looking for these leggings, scoffing on the phone to my mother that "No, I was not about to buy the nylon ones in the underwear section. Those things are itchy and remind me of the stockings you used to make me wear under my Easter Sunday dresses, which I hated, by the way."

And then, amid blaming my mother for everything, I found them.

Right there, on the 50-percent-off rack.

Brown, ankle-length, Earth-tone-embracing leggings.

For $5.

I swooped them up, thrilled to pieces.

My legging collection was complete!

Or so I thought, until I noticed an odd little seam that swooped down toward the crotch and ran back up to the hips along the front of the leggings.

An odd, swooping little seam that I soon learned was supposed to make way for an impending baby belly.

Because the tag of my lovely, brown, ankle-length, Earth-tone-embracing leggings read crystal clear: Liz Lange Maternity Leggings.

Crap.

Without a baby on board, there was no way I could buy them. It's not like I need yet another reminder of my empty womb.

So I put them down and kept looking.

And looking and looking and looking and looking.

But for the life of me, I couldn't find another pair anywhere.

So I went back to the clearance rack and grabbed the leggings, examined them, pushed out the belly panel with my hand.

But I shook my head no again and walked away.

Was I crazy? No way was I wearing maternity pants!

Two minutes later, I turned around and headed back to the rack.

I couldn't resist.

My internal monologue was positively frantic:

What if I bought a smaller size? Am I just buying these pants because I can now say I own a pair of pants in a size small? Is my own ego driving me towards these pants?

Wait: What if I wear them up around my bra line in my regular size? Would anyone else be able to tell?

Wait, wait: What if I took them in? Do people even take leggings in? And how exactly do you take an elastic waistband in?

Wait, wait, wait: What will my husband say if I come home with maternity pants? Can I possibly pass them off as a good investment because I can wear them now and whenever I am with child?

And dear God in Heaven: Why, oh why, does Target not carry more brown leggings?

It was like Sophie's Choice, people.

Buy the Preggo Pants; don't buy the Preggo Pants. Buy the Preggo Pants; don't buy the Preggo Pants.

I even attempted to consult with some of my pregnant friends, but none of them were available via text message to answer my urgent plea of, "Help! I need preggo advice! Can a non-preggo wear preggo leggings? Yes or no? YES OR NO???"

So, I bought them.

No biggie, right?

Five bucks is worth the risk, I figured. Plus, as it turns out, in Preggo Pants, I do wear a size small. Which is basically enough to convince me to make like Michelle Duggar and remain almost constantly pregnant for the rest of my child-bearing years because, hello! I got my thighs into pants marked "small." Do I need any better reason?

So, with that in mind, I walked out of Target happy, with my toothbrush and my lovely brown, ankle-length, Earth-tone-embracing, maternity leggings.

Which brings us to the next day's wee morning hours, when I began to get ready for work.

I donned my normal sweater dress and decided to add a pair of loafers and my mommy leggings to my ensemble.

I slid them on, and they worked pretty well.

They were a little roomy around the waist and belly, but my sweater-dress hid all that.

Plus, I was rather enjoying the fact that my "size small" pants were rather roomy through the waistband.

In fact, I enjoyed that size-small, roomy waistband all through my morning.

I enjoyed that size-small, roomy waistband all through my early afternoon.

I enjoyed that size-small, roomy waistband all through my lunch break.

I enjoyed that size-small, roomy waistband right up until I stood up from my desk around 3 p.m. and noticed that below the hem of my skirt, my roomy waistband had expanded so that the crotch of my lovely, brown, ankle-length, Earth-tone-embracing, maternity leggings was popping out.

Indeed, my pants, due to what I can only imagine was a bad mix of body heat, maternity clothing stretchiness and the extra belly panel, had expanded so that the crotch area of the leggings was now stretched from my inner thigh all the way down past my knees, clearly visible below the hemline of my knee-length skirt.

I had droopy drawers.

Or, rather, droopy maternity pants.

What can I say?

I'm one classy teacher.

So classy, in fact, that I had to make yet another impossible decision.

Did I hike up my skirt right then and there so I could then hike up the never-ending crotch of these pants?

Or did I waddle down the hallway of the school, risking life, limb and a possible droopy-drawer sighting by a student or co-worker, in order to make my way to the privacy of the teacher's bathroom where I could grab and tug up my leggings with some gusto?

I was paralyzed by fear.

Paralyzed by indecision.

Paralyzed by the fact that nowhere in college or graduate school did they teach me what to do in this situation.

I mean, sure, they gave me plenty of theoretical knowledge, but what good's all that when your pant's inseam is hanging below your knees?

Not much, that's what.

In the end, I managed to duck behind my desk and do a half-hearted tug of the leggings, just enough to bring the crotch up beneath the hem of my skirt, before doing some sort of hybrid waddle-gallop down the hall to the bathroom's sanctuary, praying all the while.

I made it safely and took those suckers off, vowing then and there that they wouldn't see my legs again until I had a belly that would fill them out.

Who needs lovely, brown, ankle-length, Earth-tone-embracing maternity leggings anyways?

No, seriously, who needs them? Because I will totally send them to you.

We could all be like some married, semi-pregnant version of the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.

Seriously, girls, this could totally work.

After all, the inseam would literally fit everyone.

***

Happy Tuesday everyone!

We interrupt our regularly scheduled program...

...to tell you about the gift I received in the mail!

I participated in Katie's Fall Scarf Swap, and I met the lovely and wonderful Sarah, who so generously gifted me with my new favorite accessory!

This gorgeous, purple scarf!

Oh, I love it.

In fact, this was the original color I chose for my wedding.

Apparently, I got married a year too early. In 2008, we couldn't find a suitable bridesmaid's dress - in this rich shade of purple and with a price tag under $250 - anywhere. So I settled on green.

But now, 2009 brings with it my purple. It's everywhere! It's a fashion must this season!

And thanks to Sarah, I'm totally embracing it. She couldn't have been more spot-on. She literally sent me my dream scarf.

So, in honor of Sarah, I'm walking out of the house looking like this today.

Pardon my poor experimentation with the self-timer. Why is it always so awkward?

What do you think of my little scarf-ed ensemble?

I have to be honest. Once the clock turns to 8 a.m., and the temperature rises to the requisite 90 degrees down here in the Sunshine State, that gorgeous thing is probably going to have to come off.

A sweaty neck is very unbecoming of a teacher.

Still, I'm wearing it. At least for now.

Just because I'm a Floridian doesn't mean I want to miss out on all the fashion fun.

Maybe I'll just have to wear my scarf like a Floridian wears a scarf....

I give you, Patrice', the world's best scarf supermodel.

Teehee.

FYI: My first idea was to don my scarf with a bathing suit, you know, to be funny. But then I realized that went against my religion, you know, the one I follow that says Thou Shall Not Post Photos of Oneself sans at Least One Layer of Self-Esteem-Protective Clothing on One's Blog.

So I coaxed the hubs into modeling the latest fall fashion for us.

And yes, it did take some cajoling.

Although, funnily enough, it wasn't the feminine accessory or the waist-up nudity he took issue with. Apparently, the boy is man enough for all that.

His problem?

"Babe, you know I don't wear purple."

Well, my dear, you do now.

***

So about that regularly scheduled program...

The next installment of Workout Wednesday will have to wait till next week. But remember, it's a Q&A, so if you've got an exercise question, send it my way!

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

Not on these legs!

Let me take you back. Back to my last days of high school and my first years of college.

Back to a day where I was surrounded by a veritable denim nightmare.

I was coming of age in a time when you couldn't be cool unless your jeans were labeled with three very distinct words: ultra low-rise.

Come on, I know you remember them. The wide, flared leg with the teeny-tiny inseam and butt region, which allowed for the most fashionable of women to wear a protruding thong right above their denim waistlines?

Yeah, those dreaded things.

I hated them.

In fact, I hated them with a vigor I normally save for the likes of such untouchables as sour cream and mass murderers.

They were my ultimate fashion nemesis.

I literally spent three years strolling through stores, unable to find a pair of jeans that actually fit my body.

I loathed those pants.

You see, I'm fairly certain 95 percent of my body mass falls below my waistline. I have what my husband affectionately calls a "bubble butt." And I have thighs that can squat more weight than most men (i.e., they are muscular and, well, downright huge.)

In fact, the only saving grace bestowed upon my gams is the fact that I don't have cankles.

So, when ultra-low rise jeans hit the scene, I found myself in a bit of a pickle: A pickle also known as the "I Can't Find Jeans that Cover More than Half of My Back End. Someone Please Help Me! Now!" pickle.

It was tragic. The only ultra-low-rise jeans that fit me were normally four sizes bigger than anything I'd normally wear, and they'd leave me with a gaping waistline, so much so that I could fit a 35-week pregnant woman inside the waistband of my jeans, but my thighs were still bursting at those stupid little "slim cut" seams.

The situation was only made worse by the fact that teeny, tiny, belly-baring tops were also en vogue, along with stick-straight, shiny hair.

And I'm short-waisted with curly hair that has natural propensity to frizz.

Let's just say I spent a few too many days (OK, years) cursing my gene pool.

I'd stare at my own thighs (and the identical pairs both my parents sport) and rue the day their Italian-Irish-German-Polish-Cherokee DNA gave me this disproportional "peasant stock" body, as a good family friend used to call it.

Not that I wanted to look like Kate Moss or anything. But I didn't want to be relegated to Mom jeans at the tender age of 20, either.

It was a rough coming of age.

Eventually, things did calm down. We all had a few good years, where the slim-cut, crack-baring styles segued into a more tailored, professional boot cut jean. I was able to wear pants again, and lo and behold, they were actually my supposed size.

In addition, bohemian chic, complete with flowing fabrics and thigh-forgiving dresses fell back into fashion, and my legs found sweet relief, hiding under layers of A-line, amorphous skirts.

Until now.

It all started last year, when I noticed my students sporting some unseasonably tight pants in a host of bright colors.

At first, I chalked it up to hormones and poor teenage fashion choices. After all, what 15 year old can resist a pair of neon purple denim pants?

I figured it was a fad, a fad that wouldn't hit my 20-somethings generation of women. We were were far too chic for neon purple denim, after all. Those ultra-low-rise days were far behind us.

But then, they didn't go away. In fact, they morphed.

They morphed into dark washes and light washes and bleach-stained washes, oh my!

The skinny jean became the new thing, the new look, the new pant, the new jean that everyone is wearing.

And with the Gap, Banana Republic and J.Crew jumping on the bandwagon, my generation was on board. And loving it, apparently.

And yes, it looks lovely on a lot of you, girls. Those of you with svelte, thin legs.

I see them everywhere, all the time. So let me say it again: It looks lovely. On you girls.

But, truth be told, while you all are walking around in your cute skinny jeans, I'm over here, sobbing and clinging to my boot cut has-beens, experiencing what I think may be diagnosable as Pants Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (Pants PTSD.)

Girls, I can't do it.

I just can't.

Because when I try them on, me with my now-grown-up thighs and butt, well....it's not pretty.

It's not pretty at all.

I'm back to having to buy jeans a couple sizes too big, just so I can get my thunder thighs into these stove-pipe pant legs. I'm back to finding my waistbands gaping open with extra room, while bubble butt over here bursts at the too-small seams. I'm back to crying over denim.

Now, the rational woman inside knows it's not me, per se. I've worn the same-sized pants since I was 15. (Seriously, by 15, I had these legs. And they've never shrunk. They've also never grown. But they've definitely never shrunk.)

Still, it does a world of hurt to a girl when you can't adequately fit into something called a "skinny" jean.

Or when you stare in a dressing room mirror and find two huge, denim-clad sausages protruding out of your shirt, staring back at you.

It's just all so bad: The tapered leg; the skintight fit, the curve-clinging inseam.

Also, the sheer fact that every top out this season was designed to be worn with a skinny jean, meaning that if it's worn with anything else you're going to look downright boxy and shapeless, doesn't help, either.

It's enough to send a girl back to the year 2000.

I did try to maintain hope. Kelsey (over at The Seattle Smith's), for instance, maintained she'd found a pair that I should try, because they worked for her. I had co-worker tell me she found a pair that fit her behind and would fit mine, too. I even had one of my best friends send me a whole slew of Web links to pairs she thought would fit my lower half.

But, as I suspected, the truth prevailed.

Kelsey, my co-worker and my best friend all have better legs than I do.

My legs aren't having it.

They're just having Pants PTSD.

So, in light of their skinny-jeans-induced mental illness, I can no longer be held responsible for what's about to happen to my fashion sense this fall.

Can somebody point me in the direction of the Mom jeans?

***

Have a good weekend, everyone! Happy Friday!

Fall has fallen

It happened.

For the first time in a good seven months, I was able to don close-toed shoes without feeling as if my feet were about to sweat their toes off.

That's right, people.

Fall has officially fallen here in Florida! (Try saying that five times fast.)

I'm not gonna lie to you. I've been secretly hating you all, with your blog posts about your new fall pea coats, boyfriend sweaters, and infamous pumpkin-spice lattes (which, by the way, seem to be a serious source of infatuation out here in the blogosphere, and one I'm not entirely sure is healthy. But anyways...)

So, yes, while all of you were sipping warm drinks in your long-and-lean turtlenecks, I was down here, jealous as all get-out, wearing an unfortunate tank top and chugging my cup of room-temperature coffee, which I then immediately chased with a glass of ice cubes, to prevent the inevitable sweating that comes when you drink anything in Florida that is not the approximate temperature of the Arctic Ocean.

It's no secret around here that I'm no big fan of humidity or intense heat, but it really was getting out of control this year.

When my beads of sweat start falling onto the papers I'm grading, making a "98" look like a "48," and causing fits of rage and panic in that one student who's never gotten anything less than an "A" in her life, it's time for the temperatures to drop to a breezy 80 degrees.

Yes, you read that right. When 81 is the high, I consider it fall.

You would, too, if you lived in a place where the heat index normally makes you feel like we co-exist in a 150-degree sauna.

Still, I don't get caught up in the thermometer.

When I can wear jeans without my legs feeling as if they're enclosed in sausage casings (an unfortunate side effect from the rather lethal combo of sweat, denim and humidity) then I know it's fall.

So, people, it's fall!

I'm going to ignore the Weather Channel's 10-day forecast that's dangerously hinting we may see 90 degrees - again - next week.

I'm going to pretend I don't see those flip-flops piled - out of necessity - near the door.

I'm going to pack away all manner of sundresses - even though I do love sundresses - because I think I deserve I better.

Yes, that's right. I. Deserve. Better.

I deserve to wear a sweater without getting pit stains!

I deserve to actually have my long-last, sweat-proof make-up live up to it's promise!

I deserve to use my oven without fear of it turning my kitchen into steamy desert!

I deserve to drink a cup of coffee piping hot!

I deserve fall!

We all do!

So fellow Floridians, unite!

Take off those tank tops and turn off your ACs! Go frolic in the 80-degree breezes and take plenty of hot showers! Bust out your apple cider and those pants that actually reach your ankles! (You know, the one pair we all own in case we have to go visit those relatives who live in the frigidly cold area most commonly known as North Georgia.)

At the very least, put some leggings under those sundresses, girls.

Hurry! And quick!

Before the Weather Channel tells us about the next warm front coming through.

Which apparently is set for next Wednesday.

The high?

90 degrees.

Crap.

***

Happy Thursday everyone!

Well, hello there, pretty lady!

The pity party ends now.

Because, ladies, I look good...

I mean, seriously.

I look good.

The couple of times I caught reflections of myself in the school's windows, mirrors, or freshly cleaned wipeboards, yesterday, I'd think, "Why, Britt! Not half bad!"

My hair was pinned back; my clothes were laying well; my shoes and accessories added just the right amount of pop to my outfit, and wait, was my skin glowing?

"Thank you, Lord! You have no idea how long I've waited to be the girl with the glowing skin."

Obviously, I was a little impressed with myself.

But, being a creature of sincere self-consciousness, i.e., a woman, I did what any normal person would do. The second I got a free moment (my planning period) I rushed to a safe haven (the teacher's bathroom) where I could examine my pores up close and personal and see if they'd really, truly shrunk, or was that just my imagination?

So, I leaned in toward the semi-gross teacher's bathroom mirror, nose inches away from a rusting crack. And there, bent over a sink that I'm pretty sure they hijacked out of a handicap-accessible bathroom circa 1963, I realized that, indeed, I was glowing.

And yes, my pores were smaller!

And, wait for it, I couldn't find a single blotch, blemish or discoloration!

Sign me up for America's Next Top Model, people!

What's that? You want to know my beauty secret? Well, hold on to your horses, because seriously, this is ground-breaking...

Make-up.

Plain, old make-up. A little foundation, a little concealor, some mascara, and you, too, can look like one hot teacher.

Now if I could only trademark that somehow....

All right, now that I've gotten that out of my system, let's bring this blog back down to reality.

To be honest, as I was bent over that antique sink, I did realize my skin looked good.

I realized it looked good because I haven't had on make-up all. summer. long.

Seriously, I've been in my house, wearing ratty T-shirts, bare-faced, mopping the floor.

Well, that's not entirely true. I've also been in Target, bare-faced, shopping. But does one quick trip out justify the full-fledged beauty routine? (I know the right answer here, but for the sake of my big-girl confidence, do me a favor and don't tell me that, "Yes, Brittany, the patrons of Target deserve for you to break out the concealor once in a while, too. After all, you're there enough.")

The whole point is, if I'm not going to work, I apparently don't feel the need to take the five minutes it takes to blend away my blotchy skin and match my shoes and my top.

And if you follow that motto quite religiously for 2.5 months -- which of course I do. I'm nothing if not faithful -- you end up getting a little carried away when you wise up and decide you better break out the foundation for the first day of school.

In other words, the huge contrast of Barefaced Brittany and Barely Presentable Brittany is so great that a little bit of lip gloss made this girl feel like a beauty queen.

However, never fear. Humility was not far around the corner for this chick.

I had gone to put on earrings while I was getting dressed that morning. I could only find one of the pair I wanted to wear.

But these earrings are some of my favorites: They have dangling, brown beads, and they were quite long. They are very distinctive.

However, I also knew where the missing one was: On the backseat of my car, where it had fallen out of my gym bag the week before, when I hadn't had a free hand to reach down and grab it.

I stuck the one earring in my ear and told myself I'd get the other earring and put it in my ear when I went out to my car to leave.

Flash forward to sixth period, the last class of the day, in the last minutes of the day, in fact. I'm wrapping up our first day back and reminding them of what they need to hand in tomorrow.

I ask for more questions, and one little hand shoots into the air.

I give her the go-ahead, and the student, known for brutal honesty and a rather sweet disposition, asks: "Mrs. C, why are you only wearing one earring? You kind of look like a pirate."

Reality? Check.

Happy Tuesday everyone!
___
Don't forget to ask questions for the hubs here!

Holy T-shirt!

The lovely Kristen over at Ladybug Blessings bestowed on me a while back the Keepsake Blogger Award! Thank you, Kristen! I'm so honored!

I have been a total slacker on posting about it, so as blogger penance, I am fully committing to this award. And let me just warn you all, this award will now lead you into a rather interesting look at my past. Hold on to your hats, or in this case, T-shirts!

First off, just so we all know what we're playing for, the rules:

1. Post a funny or sweet keepsake that tells something about you. 2. Pass the award on to 10 other bloggers that you think are keepers.

A funny or sweet keepsake about me? This was surprisingly tough. I had several sweet contenders, but I didn't want to get too sappy on a Tuesday, so as I was wondering around my house, looking for inspiration, I glanced down at a particularly embarrassing part of my life:


The T-Shirt Drawer, otherwise known as, The Place Old Jersey Goes to Die.

I have a strong connection to my T-shirts. I know that sounds weird, but they really do mean the world to me. They tell my story, in a way.

In that drawer, you can find T-shirts I got more than 10 years ago, for some random activity I participated in during high school, perhaps, like my high school graduation, the state championship water polo tournament, or a swim meet.

Now, I've moved past a point in my life where, for the most part, I can wear these living pieces of history. Some are so threadbare and stained that I'd be ashamed; others have been shoved in that drawer for so long that wrinkles have literally become ingrained in their fabric. Plus, nothing says professional like a good old T-shirt, circa the year 1999, does it?

But I still can't part ways with them. (Plus, I don't think Goodwill could sell them. And the homeless shelter? Well, it seems a little unfair to make to make a homeless woman wear a threadbare shirt that says, "If you can't take the heat, get out of the pool. 2000 Wildcat Swim Team.")

So there they sit, crammed into my top drawer. (Because I don't wear them, I rarely fold them. What can I say? It's a slippery slope.) They sit, taking up space for no good reason, other than sentimental attachment.

I've been saying for ages that I'm going to cut them up and sew them into a quilt. And I will. One day. (When pigs fly, and I look like Audrey Hepburn.)

But until that point, I thought you all might like to take a look at my T-shirt Treasure Trove. (Cue music that's supposed to warn you that you're about to enter into some very odd flashbacks.)

Here's the 10th-anniversary T-shirt for a camp that my husband and I used to work at. I have four of this exact shirt. Four. Don't ask me why I've been keeping them all. Even sentimental attachment doesn't explain that one.


Here's the lovely director's shirt for Golden Key International Honor Society, of which I was a member in college. This is also known as the Ugliest Shirt in My Collection. Seriously, I don't think you can tell from the picture, but the gold color is more like a mustardy puke-ish shade of yellow. It's just bad.

Oh yes, and the T-shirt I wore when I was a referee at college dodgeball tournament that was set to raise money for Florida's hungry chilren. I'm not entirely sure how I ended up ref-ing games where grown boys chucked rubber balls at each other. To be honest, I don't even remember playing dodgeball myself. Ever. But apparently, I was good enough to get a T-shirt out of the deal.


Then there's my vast collection of University of Florida (Go Gators!) fitness instructor T-shirts. Seven years and about 18 T-shirts later, I no longer teach fitness at my alma mater, but these tops, complete with their gross sweat stains, definitely bring back memories.

Oh, and I can't forget the rather depressing, yet positively pink!, T-shirt from the women's community service group I started with my best friend Blair while I was an undergrad. We were really into life-affirming, motivating statements at the time, and since we designed the shirt ourselves, we managed to pepper it with no less than 13 quotes from women throughout history. Hello, overkill!

Sadly, though, that T-shirt wasn't my first foray into clothing design. My T-shirt drawer did not disappoint, revealing many a T-shirt craft project from my earlier years.



Here's one of the matching T-shirts, made by my best friends' Sherri, Melissa, and me, that were to commemorate our friendship, I suppose. The friendship lasted. The T-shirts? Not so much. In fact, I'm probably the only one of us crazy enough to keep this thing around. And let's not even talk about how old this thing is. And don't you love the iron-on design? (Seriously, Sherri, this is cracking me up right now! I remember ironing this on!)

Now, this wasn't our only attempt at "BFF" T-shirts. Take a look at this one. Puffy paint!

Although to be fair, I still love that quote. Melissa and I made these, and then got tired of waiting for them to dry. So we stuck them in the freezer. No joke.

Now, I'd like to chalk all of my puffy painting days up to teenage antics. But I can't. Because another friend of mine, Julie, and I proceeded to paint these lovely numbers for when we started teaching a Boot Camp fitness class. In college. The class was good. Our clothing was not. (We actually had matching whistles. Sigh.)

Seriously, people, what is wrong with me? This only comprises about 1/5 of my T-shirt drawer. I have bridesmaid, maid of honor and bachelorette shirts, from my wedding and others. I have a gymnastics shirt, somewhere, from back in middle school! I have a U.S. Navy Water Polo shirt and a Green Bay Packers shirt, both attempts to support my brother and my father's undying sports loves. I can only imagine what else is crammed in this drawer!

However, I have put you through enough. And if you've made it through this whole thing, I sincerely thank you, from the bottom of my heart. No one should have to see that. Thank you, again, for your patience and acceptance:)

So now, I have to tag 10 people to do this fun activity. (Although, as always, if you I don't tag you but you want to do it, by all means, jump on in!)

So I would like to pass along the Keepsake Award to: Melissa, Mrs. Southern Bride, Brett, Jessica, Carrin, MissBliss, Nat, Jillian, Joshley and Charles, and Jenny.
Love you, girls!

And happy Tuesday everyone!