I just got Kristen Lamb’s We Are Not Alone and I know that my blog is supposed to be about building my brand. Unfortunately, as a writer I am currently struggling with all manner of issues and as a human being I am struggling with a whole bunch of other issues, which makes my blog unoriginal, to say the least. At worst it’s a bunch of stuff you really don’t want to know. At least if I stick to those issues. So today’s post isn’t about writing. Sorry.
On the other hand, it will hopefully make you laugh. Since I’m hoping to write funny books, I guess it is at least relevant to my brand 🙂
So, this has to do with the joy-making topic of my weight. Oh yes, don’t ladies know that topic well? Isn’t it fun?
I bought some jeans a while ago, in November, actually. They were pre-stressed, to the point where a stressed patch just to the left of the fly (zipper) finally gave way some time in January. I didn’t have money for new jeans and it only really showed when I sat down so I did what I do best. That’s right. I ignored it. I wasn’t arrested for indecency, so I’m guessing no one noticed.
The other day I squatted down to pet my mother’s brand new, eight week old, German Shepherd puppy. Yes, he is the last word in cuteness and fluff. Just so you know. Anyway, as I squatted down I felt that familiar sensation of fabric tearing.
Hmmm. I looked down but couldn’t see anything, so eventually decided that it was just the fabric moving over my skin and everything was ok. I drove home, which was a three hour trip and involved a stop off and a walk around Clackett Lane service station to stretch out my back.
I got home and bent down to get stuff out of my bags and felt the tearing sensation repeat itself. Being in the privacy of my own home, I felt a little more free to investigate, which meant running my hands between my legs and over my behind (couldn’t really do that in my mother’s front garden) and I found a rip.
Now, this wasn’t just any rip, as I discovered when I took my jeans off to get a look at the damage. A full eight inches had opened up down the side of the back pocket, between the pocket and the centre seam. Yes, that’s right. My jeans tore down the middle of my bottom. Since I don’t wear g-string underwear, that meant that my pink “Cute as a Cupcake” knickers were on full display any time I moved.
This actually gets even better. I had no other jeans that even remotely fitted, so I wore the same pair to the physiotherapist today. Yes, I know. I’m stupid. He did some stretches which aimed at getting my knee to meet the back of my head via my nasal cavity, or that’s what it felt like. As my knee is heading for my brain we both hear an ominous ripping sound.
Yes, that’s right. I managed to keep my back to him so he didn’t see the full extent of the damage. I did see it when I got to the shops and was trying on new jeans. The tear extended right down to the, well, yes, down there… Still, yesterday was my birthday, and as my friend pointed out last night, if you can’t walk around with your bum hanging out on your birthday, when can you?
I’m currently applying for a twenty-four hour extension to that rule, just to be safe. I now have some new, incredibly boring jeans, as befits my horribly expanded body, but you never know…