Come… gather round the campfire. Let me tell you a tale of an incredible woman… a woman who knew the value of a dollar and a good coupon. Some say she was a goddess, sent down from the heavens to inspire the weary sisters who’ve been downsized. Some say she is a myth, created by advertisers and merchandisers, hoping to drum up sales. But I know differently. Sit. Listen.
One blustery Friday morning, our intrepid curvy young woman went out in search of pleasure. No, not that kind of pleasure, the innate wonderful sense of longing and fulfillment that can only be found by scouring disheveled racks of clothing, battling shoppers and passing the cookie stand with a self-righteous look upon her face. The type of pleasure that can only be gained by shopping. Yes. Mall shopping. No, no, never you mind the economic pundits that say that the mall is dead. It is not dead, and nor is it the much lauded marketplace of days gone by, the urban village where people of like minds can come together for conversation, companionship and frappuchinos. No. The mall is a battlefield. It is the urban wasteland where survival is measured not in kills or be killed but rather in the percentage of net income left upon departure. It is the last bastion of evolution. Survival of the stylish.
Our young woman arrived at the mall early, time to plot out her attack despite the throngs of fallen, the mall workers who could only bear witness to the arena of life, swinging their arms in a “places to go, things to buy” manner which was belied by their wispy jogging suits and scuffed athletic shoes which had never been outside. She plotted her course. First stop, the store which she liked to refer to as the Better Dressed Plump Ho store. She wasn’t crazy about the clothes but they occasionally had some cute stuff. No, her true quarry here was lingerie. Bras to be precise. Bras which would hoist her good stuff and point them to the heavens, thus defying her age and genetic predisposition to store months of Venti Vanilla Mochas in her posterior. However, buoyed by a recent dalliance with healthy eating, she tried on a few pair of pants. Nothing grand. Nothing inspiring. She would not be stymied and buy something just to fulfill the desire to walk out of the clothing store with something she could exhibit to the public. No. She had more self-esteem than that. She deserved pretty undies, even at $15 a pair. But what is this? Her favorite demi bras on sale for $15? And a lovely set of jammies, long sleeved and long pants, to keep her warm in the cold fall air? And yes, she had a coupon. Oh yes she did. Final tally: three bras, a pair of jammies, a foundation type garment (that she will NOT call a girdle because only grandmotherly types wear girdles and she is NOT a grandmotherly type even if she has a few grey hairs. I’m just saying.), for $80.
Next, she made her way once again past the cookie store (a traumatic and brave experience) into the Body Shop, where she found a travel size container of Stripper Scented Coconut Body Butter for only $7. The perfect size for her carry on.
Now a normal shopper would have taken pause here. A normal shopper would have taken inventory of their bounty and perhaps decided that they should stop. But not our curvy young warrior. Yes. I used the word warrior. For you shall soon see why she is an inspiration to us all.
Next she scurried across the grand expanse of parking to a strip mall to the store which had become a second home to her. Yes, she had done a furious bout of consumerism in foreign lands and had not yet even had a morsel of food but still stood ready, armed with a charge card and another coupon. Quickly, she went on a scouting mission, circumference the store, plotting where the cutest clothes resided. They would be hers. Oh yes. She was already wearing a retro t-shirt and her boot cut low rider jeans (which, despite the connotations, actually look really cute and not at all like the punch line of a fat joke). She then pillaged the jeans rack, taking not one but two pairs of very flattering jeans (normal price $65, sales price $39.99). She quickly made allies with both of the sales people in the store, not really certain if it was just her normal friendliness or a tactical move that would come in handy. She also found four cute pairs of panties (4 for $20, normally $12.50 each), and five pairs of socks ($7 each, but buy three get two free). With her coupon, the total came to $74.63 and she felt a moment of victory, a battle hard won. But wait… one of her allies, the older sales lady, pulled from a shelf below the register, a coupon to take $10 off a $50 purchase. With a sheepish “I’m not sure if this will work or not.” she scanned it and brought the price to $64.63.
And so it went down, history to be passed down from generation to generation. She was not a goddess. No. Not a myth or a waiflike person as portrayed by Ashley Judd in the blockbuster hit Not Without My Coupon, but a real woman, flesh and blood. She lived. She lived to inspire you to shop, to roam free and purchase without fear. She is one of you. And she was real.
Now get shopping.
Yeah. I’m overly dramatic. I can’t help it. I think I’m going to tell my grandchildren about that shopping trip.
I had a lovely weekend. On Saturday Esteban and I went to the farmer’s market. I brought my Canon and took many lovely pictures of various autumnal vegetables. The lighting was incredible at 10:00 (yeah, we overslept) and I hope that some of the shots turned out. I stupidly just took the camera and didn’t switch lenses so I was walking around with the intense zoom lens on, making it difficult to focus on things from above because I was too close. But still, it was divine. Scored a lovely butternut squash, a bag of Gala apples, a bag of Cortlands, and some radishes for Ward. Esteban has been struck with a cold and is fairly petulant and whiny. He fled to the comfort of the car to nosh a Cortland while I walked around and shopped and basically soaked up the remains of the summer while reconciling that autumn is here.
Esteban then went to work for awhile and I went to get my hair cut and various parts of my face ripped off by the always lovely Stacy. My hair is really short now because I’m growing it out. No. That makes sense. Really it does. Somehow in crazy girl logic.
I then went home and made a pork loin, the butternut squash, some homemade bread, and baked potatoes. I would have made an apple cobbler, but I was too busy with also doing laundry and cleaning the bedroom. I managed to clean one side of the bedroom and spray the dust mite stuff so that my allergies don’t eventually turn me into a gigantic quivering mass of snot. It was direly in need of cleaning, too. I had planned to get to Esteban’s side as well, but as I’m completely allergic to dust, I find it helpful to spread these little acts of Cleaning Nazism out and give my lungs time to recover.
Then I went over to Ward & June’s house to drop off Ward’s radishes, but he was at work. June was very excited to see me in jeans and actually patted my butt at one point. That was a little strange. If I were a football player, it would mean that I had scored a good play. I have no idea what the Mom Butt Pat means. Perhaps it means the same thing. June and I also had a big bra discussion. No, not discussing big bras, although in my case it would be appropriate. At one point, she pulled down her pajama top to show me the bra she was wearing. And then I was struck by the strangeness of that. Do other people wear bras at night? Am I a freak because I let the girls out to roam under my jammies? Is that somehow detrimental? Will they be flopping down around my knees by the time I hit forty? I need to know answers, people!
And then that brings up another point that Penny and Carissa were discussing. Do you rewear a bra or do you wash them after one wearing? One side of the arguement is that you don’t rewear your panties unless you grew up in a truck stop. And then there is the point that bras are way more expensive than panties and you have fewer bras than panties. And honestly, that makes complete sense too because finding a good supportive bra who will be there for you and make you look good is harder than finding a good husband for some women. At least, it was for me, and the husband thing sort of happened without much intervention from me, whereas a bra is a different matter entirely. I’m completely torn because I see the logic on both sides. Usually I’m wearing a specific bra for a specific outfit but if I’m wearing a normal daily bra two days in a row (like on weekends) and Day One wasn’t all sweaty, I tend to rewear once, (a habit I picked up when I was a teenager and only had but two bras) but now I’m wondering if that makes me gross? And you have no idea how much soul searching and bravery it’s taking to post that on the internet. Why is it that it’s easier to talk about some of the crazy stuff that I post here (like the trip to the porn shop or how itchy my arm pits get sometimes), but I’m terrified that y’all will think I’m smelly. And do you rewear jeans? Some people rewear jeans and some people don’t. I tend to throw everything in the dirty hamper, but maybe I’m living a double standard. Do you rewear a sweater? What about a suit?
And while we’re on the subject of bra revelations, let me tell you this: I still put my bra on like I’m twelve years old, latching it in the front and twisting. Well, that just can’t be good for it. I’ve been practicing putting it on like an adult, though. I’m quite proud that I got one hook latched a few weeks ago. But it makes me feel so retarded. Oh sure, guys, you like to brag that you can unlatch them one handed. Big whoop. So can I. I’d like to see you hook the damn thing behind your back without using a mirror. Let’s see an Olympic event in THAT.
These are the philosophical discussions that matter. That free will thing that Decartes goes on about? Pointless. That whole “What is the meaning of life” that Camus pondered for decades? Who cares. Just tell me how often I can wear my bras without being a skank. That’s all I’m asking.
