What Looks Like Crazy on An Ordinary Day

Turning forty-one has been fabulous and amusing! I have finally learned to relax and not worry so much about some of the trivial things. Unfortunately, I have had to accept that my metabolism is not as it used to be. I'm not the lean, young girl who could eat everything when I wanted and not have it camp around my mid-section. I remember constantly trying to GAIN weight, as a junior high student. Quite different now. Years ago I could just grab my size when shopping and not worry about trying it on in the store. Now I take several sizes in the fitting room. This is usually how I gauge my weight. Usually, I leave out with my hair sticking up, sweating and leaving every item there.

Recently, I was running late for work. I quietly but quickly grabbed my red shirt and pants from our closet. I didn't want to wake my husband so I used a dim light to see and took my clothes to our bathroom. I put on my pants, but the shirt was a little challenging. I could hear some threads popping as I forced it over my head and arms.

The shirt fought me as I attempted to pull it over my torso. The shirt yelled, "I DON'T FIT YOU!" I'm a fighter, so I was determined to get the shirt on. Until... I began sweating and felt a little dizzy. This was ridiculous! It felt like I had a blood pressure cuff on my body!

Glancing at the clock, I realized I had minutes to get out and head for work. But how was I gonna get out of the shirt? I could barely breathe or move. How in the world did this happen? Sure I'd gained some weight and it fit a little snug but gracious, I could get it on before.

I could feel tears coming. I sucked it up and took a deep breath and tried to pull it up and over my head.

Comedy! After about five minutes of circling around with my arms stuck and eyes covered, I finally got the thing off. Couldn't believe I didn't wake anyone. So I cleaned up, cooled down, stomped on the evil shirt and quickly threw on another one.

On the way out to the garage, I slammed the ripped shirt into the trash! Not to be outdone, I immaturely gave it half a peace sign.

Driving to work, I reflected on the whole ordeal and tried to accept that I had simply blown up. It's life. I collected myself and walked into work...feeling bruised mentally and definitely physically.

Later, when I got home, my eleven-year-old daughter asked me what happened to her red shirt and why was it in the trash.

Yep! I'm crazy.