Friday, December 10, 2010

Can I Put This Off?

In my ever expanding need to complete my transformation to total uselessness, I have become what I never thought I would be...a procrastinator.  I have recently discovered I apparently have only two strengths left in this life, bitching and laundry.  I'll let you decide which one is more productive.  The reason I can't decide which skill more useful is that when I got up today, I couldn't figure out which of my poorly fitting sweats to put on, making doing my own laundry rather pointless.  I am experiencing a wardrobe nightmare.  We've been invited to a Christmas party at a neighbor's house on Saturday and I am going to have to decline.  Because I literally have nothing to wear.  Unless you call four pairs of sweat pants that were loose six months ago and one little black dress I can't wear without showing way too many tattoos a wardrobe or an option.  The party is casual, so the black dress is out.  You could argue the tattoos bring me down to casual, but I tend to think they more likely bring me down to "redneck" trying to look classy.  My pride says the sweats are out.  Justin is probably going to have to go to the party stag, while I sit at home and bemoan the fact that (a) every pair of pants I've bought that actually fasten are too long or too big in the thighs and (b) if I can fasten them, they actually hurt me.  Is this normal?

I know you hear "I have nothing to wear" a lot from women.  But what they really mean when they say that is that they want to go shopping for something new and sparkly.  I don't want to go shopping.  I want to fit back into the clothes I already have.  Which would be oh so much easier if my doctor would realize that a total hysterectomy, my resulting slowed metabolism, and gaba medications obviously do not agree...leading to a 15 pound weight gain and me sobbing in my closet with a pile of clothes on the floor I can no longer fasten and a rack of empty hangers.  If I were to pull every pair of pants out of my closet that I can no longer fasten, there would actually Be. No. Pants.  I am even outgrowing the "new" clothes that I've bought since my surgery eight months ago that were loose when I bought them.

My beloved mother recently called to say she had no idea what to get me for Christmas this year, so she wants to take me shopping for clothes.  I can't tell you how grateful I am for this offer, aside from the fact that I am going to have to go shopping naked.  Which would probably be titillating if it weren't for the new roll of fat around my middle and the fact that gravity is now taking its toll...and I'm going to leave the rest to your imagination.  Or not.  You probably don't want to go there.  And, really, does it make sense to buy clothes when you have no idea how long they are going to fit?  My weight could go either way, but at this point, I only see that number of the scale climbing if I'm being realistic.  Leading to the question of exactly how much weight a 5'3" frame can bear...and that's not a rhetorical question anymore.

But I digress.

My original thought this morning (after squeezing into a shirt that is supposed to be a large, but obviously shrank in the dryer and the unstylish sweat pants that are becoming a little too short, most likely because more of the fabric is needed to accommodate my expanding waistline) was that the laundry needed to be done.  I was a day late because of a rough day yesterday.  Between the morning long agonizing about the prep for the CT scan, the actual prep for the CT scan, the time for the test itself, and the resulting hours of recuperation from the strain that drinking all of that chalk put on my already dysfunctional bladder (can you say Depends?), I was behind and my 19 year old son hadn't brought me clothes in over a week.  To be fair, that's just plain lazy on his part and just plain overindulgent on mine.  At 19, he should be doing his own laundry and I know I'm doing him no favors by sneaking into his room while he sleeps late to snag his dirty clothes so that he will have something to wear to work tonight.  But when laundry (and bitching) are all you have going for you, you tend to get protective of the one thing you are good at that's productive.  Well, the bitching might be considered productive...but not by anyone in my household except me.  (Did I mention that writer's block is a total bitch?  Can you call yourself a writer if you aren't actually writing anything?)

So I gathered together the dirty clothes, knowing I was in for at least two extra loads because of my extra day of procrastination and whining and suddenly realized that, while I have in essence completed my Christmas shopping via internet (either agoraphobia about mall shopping or the extended illness leaving me repeatedly uttering curse words I hope my 12 year old can't hear), I haven't wrapped one Christmas present.  It's now the 10th of December.  The tree is up, thanks to my incredibly wonderful husband and the efforts of the kids to decorate it, I've put out the snow globes and the Santas, and packages are arriving daily in the mail.  But it's 15 days before Christmas and I haven't even checked to see if we have wrapping paper or tape.  And I should probably buy the dog a gift.  Seriously.  All of his toys look like they were dragged through the mud, which they probably were.

I used to pride myself on starting my Christmas shopping in August, finishing by Thanksgiving, and having wrapped gifts to put under the tree by the time the tree was up.  Which means I'm behind.  (Did I mention useless?)  I think this whole weight gain thing has done something to my organizational abilities.  Or my cognitive abilities.  Or maybe just my ability to get off my fat ass and get something done.  I am praying that my laundry abilities do not go the way of every other domestic chore I've ever tried to do, because if they do, we are left with just bitching and I can't imagine that's going to be acceptable to my unbelievably tolerant husband.  Or maybe he's just too tired to either insist I become useful or walk out the door.  How I got so lucky, I'll never know.  Maybe it's because I am trying to keep the bitching to a low mumble while folding the clothes, so that he is constantly asking me what the hell I am talking about.  Leading me to smile and say, "Just talking to myself.  Pay no attention to the woman behind the curtain."  It's really better for both of us. 

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