to time Carissa and I don’t buy each other Christmas presents or lunch because that would leave us beholden to each other and set a feeling of responsibility, so instead we buy each other a Seasonal Cheer lunch’ which is sort of like telling someone you love them when you are drunk or through the art of hand puppetry. Because she had to go to one of the snooty suburbs to run an errand, I suggested we go to the Bistro there as my act of seasonal cheer. Mostly because not only do they make a fabulous quiche but they also have Black Angus burgers that are as thick as they are wide and served on pumpernickel buns with lovely toppings, such as wild mushrooms or caramelized onions. I love places that cater to my whims’ I could be frou frou or carnivorous. It was a world of gastronomical possibilities.
Carissa complimented me on my eyebrows. I don’t know what to make of this, but she is the third person in two days to do so. Apparently it either works well with the new hair color or Stacy achieved the delicate sense of balance between Dr. Spock and Dr. Phil (yes, I know he’s a big burly Texan boy and he’s got that convertible top thing going on, but does he need to compensate with an eyebrow awning?) but they are Cinderella at the ball. I have also, undoubtedly thanks to the combined stress of my job and finishing my graduate program applications, developed two Wicked Stepsister blemishes, which are at the moment contained with Prescriptives foundation, a steady hand and a trowel.
She also mentioned that I was looking good. Well, no, she really looked at me and said ‘How you doin’?’ which is again our shorthand Friend Speak, which is like Twin Speak but without the Taay Eenda Weend crap.
I feel like I’m looking good, too. I feel as though I can glimpse my inner Hottie right now. Also, I feel bolstered by getting grilled on my weight loss this Saturday by Stacy, who hasn’t see me since early October. And there is this spot on my hip, this flat spot on my hip that wasn’t there before, a new plateau in a hilly landscape, a bone where once there was softness. It’s strange. Confused by its presence, I keep running my hands over it as one would a worry stone.
Then one night I came home exceptionally late (which I suppose is becoming my normal time, this lateness), ate dinner, watched Buffy, wrote a bit and then went to bed and tried to sleep, but despite the fact that it was past midnight, I couldn’t. I just kept thinking about the spot’ that place on my hip. It’s like a hand hold on the mountain that is me. Something used to be there that isn’t anymore.
And that’s when I got up from bed, turned on the light and hauled out the EXTREMELY SMALL pair of jeans.
Oh they’re not extremely small’ they’re actually the same size as every other pair of jeans I own, with the exception of the Hottie Jeans, which are actually smaller. But these jeans are cut strangely, as though for a curvy round BOY. The ass area is extremely unforgiving. I purchased them five years ago (about a week after coming back from England, where I had gotten extremely sick for five days from duplicitous pub mayonnaise on a red bean burger) and then put them in a drawer for two months, since it was summer and hot and I was either unemployed or had a new job so was dressing to impress. And then when I tried them on, the effects of my desk job with numerous potlucks and snack days became apparent.
So I tried on the jeans. They still don’t fit. But they Don’t Fit much better than they didn’t fit before. This time they slipped up my legs and over my ass without a problem, but they are almost but not quite able to close. This, however, is a complete improvement, as the first time I tried them on in June, they didn’t even get up over my then-bulbous ass. And right now, if Sonny Corleone put a gun to my head and demanded that I zip the jeans, I could probably do it. With some internal bleeding’ but it would still be possible.
So I told Carissa all of this and then she rather bravely announced to the restaurant what she weighed. Well, not really, but if anyone had been listening, they would have heard. That’s one of the reasons that Carissa is my hero.
I ended up ordering a Black Angus burger (because last night my dinner consisted of popcorn and Junior Mints at the Lord Of The Rings) and sweet potato French fries. So it will be awhile for the Small Jeans. I’m just saying.
And then she received a glass of soda that had this strange ice configuration so while I was talking, she just kept looking at it and then she placed her head almost on the table to get her face right in there and study it, so I said ‘Hey. Rainman. Are you listening?’ which then sent us both into a peal of uncontrollable giggles and made Carissa gulp for air in a way that made her bark like a seal and then I blamed the acoustics of the tin ceilings for making the bark sound so completely the opposite of that which is attractive and ladylike. And then we laughed some more, until we were both crying and our tummies were toned from jovial seasonal fun.
I’m so lucky that she is my friend. And I’m not even drunk right now.
