I went shopping.
Heck, yeah, I did. It was the most successful (read: expensive) shopping excursion I've been on in years. I was able to buy everything in smaller sizes, and really, that might account for some of the bulk of the purchases. (Carrie gets a little giddy about single digit sizes.) I spent an hour and a half in Anthropologie. I got a very fancy, kelly green, ruched dress, a blue and green patterned dress that is nine kinds of cute, and this little piece of amazing, right here. It might be my new favorite piece of clothing, ever. In fact, I don't think I'll save it for special events. The grocery store? Check. Teaching class? Right-o. Dance rehearsal? I think I will, thank you. I also got this, this and two pairs of these. Because you haven't lived 'til you've worn the boyfriend jean from the Loft.
Fine, maybe you've lived, but you haven't lived in super cute, comfy jeans.
Point of interest regarding retail shops: When did they start playing loud, obnoxious music to the point that you can actually feel your teeth vibrate in your head? I've really decided that the music is the go-to factor in deciding whether or not I'm too old to shop at a store. If they're blasting something that spills out into the area 10 feet outside the closed shop doors, you can bet I'm not going in. If they're doing that and they've pumped some sort of perfume/cologne combination to linger around the area while you shop, then I'm not going in times two.
If I were a math-minded person (not that that's something that I will ever be, or to which I even aspire, for that matter) I would make a graph, or a Venn diagram or something super smart looking and clever to illustrate my point. But alas, you go un-illustrated, dear reader. The cleverness is at an all time low, over here. Try to cope.
And my last little bit of information is this: I come home from this four day trip to a mountain of laundry. Inevitable, I know. I'm not complaining (much). However, as I pull the boys' dirty clothes out of their overnight bags, I realize that Ethan wore MY jeans on Monday. He had to have; they had grass stains all over the knee, and I think you and I both know (with the exception of one or two select activities) that is something that would never happen while I was wearing them. Ever. Now, thanks to calorie counting and denying myself the basic rights of Twix bars, I am smaller, and I'm happy about that, but there is no way on God's Earth that the eleven year old boy and I wear the same size. (Old Navy "Flirt" size ten vs Boys 12 slim.) Perhaps I should clarify. There's no way we wear the same size AROUND. In length, sad to say, his legs are as long as mine. Thank GOD I married a tall man. The boys have a shot at not being midgets. They also have big feet, because the same eleven year-old has snaked my red Converse for himself. It started out as a special occasion - "Mom? Can I wear these?" - and now he just keeps them in his room. Same size foot. At age eleven. I'd like to say that I have really dainty feet and that's why, but nope. I wear between 7 - 7 1/2, which is a man's 5.
That was a long, nebulous story that had absolutely no impact on anything resembling importance. Apologies all around. And enjoy your Wednesday, folks.