Look, I realize it's been about two years since I wrote anything new on here let alone anything funny for you to read.
At some point [and I couldn't quite pin the tail on the donkey with it] I began to veer away from self-aggrandizing situational humor towards (what editors have told me to call) speculative fiction and fantasy with lots of descriptors and enough adjectives that Tolkien and Dickens worry about my word count [and my editors to bring out the red pen o'doom].
It wasn't that I don't like sharing my life and foibles with you. It wasn't that I disliked sharing details of my forthcoming/came-and-went wedding or the everyday moments with my husband [seriously, two years flew by!]. It's not really that I didn't think of funny things to share with you guys. It wasn't even that I didn't have it in me [I'm pretty sure I could have sat less on the couch eating pizza/casserole/tater tots and more writing OTHER things than faerie short stories and allegory pieces]. It simply boiled down to the classic aphorism:
It's not you, it's me.
You see, somewhere, somewhen, I began to stop feeling all uber-narcissistic towards what I do on a daily basis [read: working some, cooking more, writing in-between kitteh scritches and laundry] and finding it enthralling to detail it in a self-aggrandizing/effacing manner.
Again, I'm sorry?
And then, this [redacted and softened around the edges] photo happened.
While it has been pointed out that I would be considered "attractive" in this photo [the word "bear" may have been bandied about]; I felt, when looking at my jeans - my oh so comfy and cherished, favorite leg-lenthening and flattering jeans ... GAH! I felt betrayed and absolutely GAH! towards them. They weren't flattering. No. They were liars (and so was the angled floor-length mirror in our bedroom which reflected my legs look long and lean in these jeans); they were 'leg-chunkening and shortening because they can' jeans. No. My GAH! feeling towards all of this was my own undoing.
From sitting in said jeans and the blurring of the photo for posterity (and promptly discarding them in the laundry bin in lieu of basic black cargo knee-length cargo shorts before walking out the door) my handsome husband and I thence proceeded to the same low-price/up-scale namebrand boutique [cough Burlington cough] where we had procured our wedding vests in the search to procure a new vest for our mildly-similar-to-Newt Scamander-esque vibe to our joint crafting venture. And, for me, to hunt for something that made me feel good about myself.
A pair of miracle ego pants, if you will.
[the vest search plays no part here except that it embedded in me the desire for a specific slim-fit, skinny-leg BRIGHT HIPSTER BLUE jeans that Burlington had, but in sizes too big or laughably far too small]
Scamander-esque and absolutely squee-worthy vests in-hand and my NEED FOR NEW PANTS still burning away, we continued on to my favorite string of thrift stores [cue Macklemore's 'Popping Tags' if you get where I'm going here]:
Yes, at the first one we found gator shoes (those are blue) and a sweet, look-like-they-were-still-untouched pair of Converse snearkers, but the pants? The 'okay, these have possibility' pants on offering?
Honestly? If I wanted to look like I rolled up into K-Mart's mom jeans section circa 1996, then they would have had me covered.
The second and third offerings panned out just as successfully for my miracle pants-longing as the first. By now, hungry, angry and frustrated, we agree to hit the last of the chain in the area before nabbing a late lunch at a favored restaurant. [to drown our disappointment in queso blanco? Why not?] While in the past this particular outlet had been rife with great finds, in the last year/year-and-a-half it had waned to more miss than hit; yet, we said "why the hell not?"
Because, when you're hunting for your miracle you'll take ABBA's advice: and take a chance (on me).
As we pulled into the parking lot we realized that the sunshine and Sunday sales drew in a heady crowd of post-Church-goers. Wishing I brought a taser [oh, come on - I wouldn't use it ... probably] and, despite having to resist smacking the grabby 10 year old who felt that he HAD TO TOUCH EVERYTHING WITH HIS SNEEZE COVERED HANDS and wait for the be-mulleted man to sidle away from THE GORGEOUS PAIR OF BEACH CORAL RED SLACKS I WILL CUT A BITCH TO OWN, it was an uneventful beginning. Within a few minutes I had, like before, a full armload of jeans and pants that held appeal and I was willing to take a chance on in the changing room; but, like at the previous stores, I was ready to be disappointed. (For example, the absolutely adorable pair of straight-leg acid-wash jeans that looked to be EXACTLY my style turned out to be 1) ones I had actually donated several months prior and 2) still too damn small as they wouldn't make it halfway up my thighs.)
But, oh, how I whispered a fervent prayer as I eyeballed the seven, I mean five - they only let you take five items into the changing room - pairs of pants on the hanger.
"Please, if you are a kind,just and loving god/deity/Cher, please, let me find at least one pair of jeans that A) fit and B) don't make me look like a "What Not To Wear" promo. Thank you"
And, as I slipped on the I WILL KICK SMALL CHILDREN FOR THESE PANTS red slacks they not only fit past my thighs, they ... gasp ... went about my waist and comfortably zipped! No Moose knuckles for me today, kids! [if you have to ask what a Moose Knuckle is, just urbandictionary.com that shit - oh, and Camel Toe] I was ecstatic! Wiggling my bum in a probably-more-embarrassing-than-its-worth-to-tell dance, I bumped my knee on the small bench before hanging them up in glee.
Would the denim-in-sunset colored slim-cut straight-leg slacks fit, too? Oh joy-of-joys, yes!
A thousand times, yes! They fit! And look! Oh Sweet Baby Ray's how they make my legs look long and lean in this unflattering overhead fluorescent lighting. If I look bangin' in this, I look fantastic. Period.
And now, the moment of moments: will the super-cute, super-Hipster, super-affordable American Eagle skinny-leg, baby blue jeans fit?
The overhead lighting dims and, suddenly, it's like I'm in my own soft-focus Angela Lansbury (patent-pending) lighting. I look sexy. I look svelte. I look ... like I'm only slightly heavier than I was when I met my husband; whom I realize is still on the other side of the changing room's door. And, just as I go to unbutton the not-tight-at-all top button I hear it. Like the silence descending upon the world as dawn breaks, I hear it:
"Life is a mystery / everyone must stand alone ..."
Oh, blessed be Madonna.
And, for a moment, god/deity/Cher with a fantastic sense of humor and timing grants me my little miracle of emporacular proportions.
And that, dear readers, is why I felt the need to share - perhaps overshare - and (even if momentarily) return to give you a laugh or two, too.