I’ve always had these days, but they come with more frequency lately–the “I have nothing to wear” blues. I made it through the day in a shirt that was cute but kind of tight-fitting, but I ran out of patience as I gathered my things for my final event of the day, computer time at Starbucks.
I have already compromised my vain principles to wear Stephen’s shirts around the house as pajamas, but I have never sunk so low as to wear them out in public. But today I was tired, hot, and scratchy, so I set my dignity aside and pulled on his favorite soft American flag t-shirt before I walked out the door.
“It’s okay, lots of women go to Starbucks in oversized, ill-fitting clothes. They don’t look great, and you might not either, but it’s not like you’re going there to pick up dudes anyway.” I positive self-talked myself all the way to the bathroom.
There at the mirror, I was confronted by a shocking revelation: it seems that I have underestimated the enormity of my situation. And by situation, I mean stomach. The shirt wasn’t even that baggy on me! It fit! And I still have seven weeks to go! I might neeed therapy in addition to a personal trainer when this whole thing is over.
