10:03 a.m. - 2005-04-01
Size Elevens.
Thank you, dear readers. Your guestbook entries were most needed and appreciated. I was having an insecure day.
BUT...I got my hair cut. And now I'm back to fabulous. Layers...it's all about layers. I am wearing the greatest outfit of all time, and the first words out of my bosses mouth, when I walked into this office on this GORGEOUS friday morning were "OH, we are DEFINITELY leaving early today."
LOVE her.
SO I was in Target last night...you know, because i came within 100 yards of it. Did you know that Target has a tractor beam like the one on the Death Star (or whatever that ship in Star Wars was called) has...it pulls you in and in order to leave, you absolutely HAVE to spend $60.
So, I discovered something at Target. I have been wearing the wrong shoe size. I know what you're thinking...I'm an idiot. But let me explain. Whenever I've tried on any sort of dress shoe or sandle, I always bitch and whine because they effing HURT. But everyone always complains about that...so I just assumed that what my mother once told me "You have to suffer to be beautiful" is true. Man, is that true. I ate a salad and a tiny bit of pizza last night....do you knw how much I wanted to freaking dive onto the table next to us and DEVOUR the entire super-cheesy-extra-deluxe-with-everything pizza that the big fat family was eating? But no...bathing suit season is RAPIDLY approaching. Anyway, today I tried on the next bigger size because they didn't have the beautiful black kitten heel sandles in a 10. Well, low and behold. I wear a freaking 11. I tried them on...and I could walk. I could even dance. Hell, I could play basketball like those ladies in the Easy Spirit commercial. But instead of being ugly dorky old lady librarian heels like Easy Spirit...these are HOT.
While I was at Target, I got in line behind this woman. She was about 5 feet tall, probably 250 pounds, and had on this light stone washed jean jacket with the word "DANCER!" airbrushed onto the back of it. As I waited for the cashier to ring up her socks and DVDs, I began to ponder this strange label she had affixed so deliberately to her. What sort of dancing was it I wondered? Ballet? Nah. Boot Scoot n' Boogie? (I'm not sure what that means, but I think it has something to do with country music and I feel like those coutnry people are more likely to come up with stupid puns to describe what they do instead of Exclamatory statements. Example: "Save a horse. Ride a cowboy." Yeah, that's real.) Swing Dancing? UNlikely. That requires a fair amount of agility and stamina. She sort of looked like she could be one of those people on Sweatin' to the Oldies. Perhaps that qualifies as dancing? Sure. Why not? I'm feeling generous today. Ma'am, you are indeed a bona fide Sweatin' to the Oldies DANCER! Go on with your bad self.
