So, I was sitting at my desk this morning minding my own business when I felt a breeze on my thigh. I was (still am actually) wearing pants. Breezes are infrequent.
I looked down and lo, the inner hem down my left leg of these Ann Taylor slacks was splitting in two.
Ann Taylor? Fsshaw, More like ain't tailored.
The first two months of residency I was in scrubs all day every day. It was not only delightful, but mollifying. It convinced me that hey, even though I'm working thirty hour shifts and eating whatever the hell I want because I've convinced myself I deserve it, or have just watched a child die, or have fucked up some sort of something yet again, it wasn't having any effect! Wonderful! I deduced I reached stress levels so high that it didn't matter that I was eating my feelings because raw anxiety was just dicing the calories away.
Imagine my surprise when I had to switch to wearing real clothes again and oh oh, oh oh, I looked like a sausage cased skank in my too tight pants/skirts/tops/you name it. I will say that my socks have remained decent. I haven't let myself entirely go.
I have chosen to ignore this reality (since accommodating my heft with a new wardrobe takes time and money and fashion sense... things I suffer a deficiency of) until today when my pants tried to emancipate itself from my leg (Free at last, free at last!).
Thinking quickly I grabbed a stapler and zipped to the bathroom where I stapled the hem back together, aware that the people peeing in the neighboring stalls would wonder what in the HELL I was doing, and resolved to do something about my life.
I'm getting married in June (oh, right. Surprise! Haven't blogged since April!). I don't want to look at pictures of a swollen face and chin flirting with doubles for the rest of my life. I want to look the best I can for that day because hello, this is supposed to be my prime, and further, I am nothing if not vain. I mean, clearly. I have a blog.
I suppose there's an element of health/wellness/energy that factors into this too, but frankly, I don't want to look like a heifer trapped in beaded saran wrap on my wedding day.
Also, it'd be cool if my pants didn't spontaneously split.
I joined Spark People (snaps to Charlotte for mentioning it previously). I need something to hold me accountable and at least remind me that creamsicles and a box of mac & cheese does not a dinner make.
I hope this move really will ignite something.
Like my metabolism.