Category: Tuesday Stuff

So, the whole crying on Sunday thing I alluded to yesterday…

If there is one thing that I CAN NOT stand to do, and I mean, I avoid it at all costs, is clothes shopping.

I absolutely, positively, can not stomach shopping for clothes.

I have no problem shopping for my boys or my husband, but for me?

Forgetaboutit.

And one of the biggest reasons I DON’T shop for myself? Because I’m a tall Amazon woman and the numb nuts in the fashion industry simply DO NOT design clothes for my body frame.

Here are my biggest problem areas:

I have football shoulders. Seriously, they are wide. And I have thick arms, which accounts for my current obsession in whipping these logs into shape before summer because they’re just hideous.

And I have a long torso. And a long, er, inseam.

And I find it nearly impossible to find anything that fits me.

So, I hang out in t-shirts because they are the only thing that even remotely cover my huge frame and they’re comfortable.

But let’s be honest, t-shirts? Ain’t sexy. And my poor husband would like to have a wife who exudes just a little bit of sex appeal. It’s an ego thing.

Now don’t get me wrong, I look at clothes. In fact, it’s safe to say, I’m almost obsessed with looking at clothes. But I’m worse than the Chandler character on Friends: I pick everything apart and nothing is ever good enough for me.

The sleeves are way too short and will highlight my thickness. (Seriously. What asshole designer thought that cap sleeves were EVER a good idea for a woman??)

Shirts/blouses are never long enough and end up hitting me at high waist. And if I’m lucky enough to FIND something that is long enough, it inevitably shrinks in the wash so I MIGHT be able to wear it for a grand total of two times before that happens.

I can’t wear boatnecks, halter tops or thick-strapped tank tops because it draws attention to my linebacker shoulders and makes them look even wider – if that’s even possible.

Pants? NEVER LONG ENOUGH. Ever.

Ever.

Any pants that I buy? Have to be specially hemmed in order to be long enough (Thank God for Land’s End or I’d be walking around in high waters my entire life).

So, even though I can wear Misses size clothing, I can’t. Because of the reasons stated above. So, I shop Tall – only, the Tall selection? Not so good. Think fugly maternity clothes – limited selection and what is up with the fabric choices?!

In a nutshell? Clothes are my Achilles heel. When I’m lucky enough to find something that fits me, I tend to hoard it, and only wear it on select occasions because I’m terrified of washing it too many times for fear it will shrink.

But when I wear it, I feel confident that it looks good on me.

And then, I find out that something I’ve been wearing and feeling good in? Makes me look pregnant.

Yeah. I’d like to MURDER THE PERSON WHO TOLD KEVIN THAT.

It was a company picnic. And I wore this cute little top with 3/4 sleeves (hide the fatty arms), that draped to my hips and plunged low enough that I wore a cami underneath it and showed just a hint of cleavage. In my eyes, this baby did a good job of covering up my flaws – even the color suited me.

But Kevin told me over the weekend (and this picnic was last summer!!), that someone asked him when I was expecting!?!

AARGH!! He said it was because of the empire waist, that it ballooned out just enough to make it look like I was hiding a poochy belly …

which I sort of was, but that’s beside the point.

I love empire waist tops. I just think they’re cute. They are tight around the bodice but billow out around the waist so that a woman can hide the rolls and back fat. A win-win situation, apparently.

Kevin? Hates empire waists – on any woman, because he thinks it makes them look pregnant.

I CAN NOT WIN.

Kevin told me this right before Bible study on Sunday and I’m ashamed to admit this, but I didn’t pay attention to anything that was discussed during Bible study because I was too busy feeling incredibly angry about this stupid clothes situation. Apparently, I can not find a healthy balance between something that fits and is sexy. It just frustrates me to no end.

And when I get that frustrated? I cry. And if you ever see me crying? Do. Not. Approach. I will savagely tear you to shreds because I can’t stand to cry and I can’t handle people seeing me cry.

I shut myself off in the bathroom after Bible study and had a really good cry. The hard, silent, uncontrollable cry that only happens to me once every ten years.

I know it seems silly to cry over clothes, but this is something I’ve struggled with my whole life. It’s an ongoing battle that is never far from my mind.

AND the reason I loathe spring and summer so much because I’m forced to wear more revealing clothes that do not flatter me.

After I got over my crying bout, a red-hot searing hatred for everything in my closet consumed me. So much so, in fact, that it motivated me to clean out my closet and stuff nearly every article of clothing that I own into trash bags and give away to the Goodwill.

Five 1/2 trash bags, to be precise.

And that’s where Tackle it Tuesday comes in. (Finally).

I shut the bedroom door and I ripped into the task with a vengeance that kind of scared me, if you want the truth. I was purging on a frantic, animal level. If I hadn’t worn the article of clothing in the last year, it was out. If it was borderline, it was out. If I had been hanging onto it for the past several years thinking I would wear it again once I got a job outside the home where I was required to wear something nice, I got rid of it.

I went from this:

To this:

In an hour.

And it felt GOOD. I felt FREE. And then immediately felt an overwhelming wave of sadness.

Now what?

Even though it would thrill Kevin for me to walk around naked all the time I’m pretty sure it would scar the boys for life. Not to mention scare small children and make otherwise complacent animals turn rabid.

AND, did I mention that we’re going on a cruise in June?

Hello?! Vacation pictures!! *insert banshee screams here*

If I ever needed convincing that I have the best husband in the world (which I don’t), this would be the point where I realized it. Kevin saw how upset this whole clothes thing was to me and he went through a JCPenney catalog and marked everything he thought would look cute on me.

Of course, I shot down everything he marked (the sleeves are too short, it’s not a size tall so the waist won’t be long enough, the color won’t flatter me, etc, etc), but it was the thought that melted my heart.

Because I was in one of those rare moods to actually HEAR someone give me constructive criticism, we went online and searched several shops for clothing that met my criteria.

He offered his opinion, and I listened. We volleyed back and forth on various options (and I’m sad to say, there weren’t many) and our conclusion?

I look best in sporty-type clothes. Dainty feminine stuff? Just looks ridiculous on me. And if anyone in the fashion industry happens to come across this post? How’s about making some clothes that flatter tall women?!

Here is what I DO look good in:

3/4 sleeves – seriously, I was made to wear this length. But it’s not exactly ideal when hanging out around the equator – have I mentioned that I exude three football players’ worth of sweat every single waking moment??

Spaghetti straps. I mentioned that I can not wear tank tops, but for some strange reason, I can carry off spaghetti straps. So, here come the camis.

Sleeveless turtlenecks. I can’t wear sleeveless in any other style because once again, those damn football shoulders.

V-necks and regular t-shirt collars are okay but square necks, or boat necks are OUT.

Pants that flare at the bottom – straight legs bring attention to my wide load, otherwise known as my hips and butt.

I can wear low-waisted pants, but only if I wear a top that comes to my hips. Remember the whole long-waisted problem? This way, it all blends.

And that’s it. Everything else? Doesn’t work for me.

My options are limited. My wardrobe is boring.

And I’ve given up on trying to be sexy.

See GD’s new car?

It’s a 1999 Chevy Cavalier and as you can see, the body is in pretty good shape. It runs pretty good – Kevin drove it to work today and said it did really well on the highway. It needs to be aligned and the back defroster doesn’t work (we can worry about that in the Fall) but other than that, it seems to be pretty solid.

After we picked it up last night, the guys ran it through a car wash, so the exterior looks pretty good, but it’s filthy on the inside. I’m going to give it a good inside washing later this week. The interior smells a bit like smoke and GD says he LIKES the smell – Hhmm … a little worried about that. 🙂 But I’m sure it’s nothing that a little Febreeze can’t fix.

My father-in-law dropped by to pick up some tax forms that Kevin worked up for him and he left some high-duty car wax with us, so Kevin and GD are going to give it a good wax job this weekend. Kevin also showed GD how to check the oil and other things concerning the motor last night.

The previous owners replaced the brake drums in the back, but didn’t paint them, so they are rusted and nasty looking right now, the guys are also going to paint those this weekend, too.

GD and I took it for a short drive.

He was excited to drive it and he drove MUCH better this go-around. He was a lot more confident and his turning was much smoother this time around. I was amazed at the change in his attitude. He was fired up. And this car really seems to suit him – he loves it.

He’s been bitten by the driving bug.

God help us.

It has a moonroof. Here he is gloating at me because I just told him I was jealous.

And I am. The stinker.

We teased him quite a bit about the moonroof.

“Think how romantic that will be when you’re on a date and you guys can sit back and admire the stars while holding hands.”

*snicker* We love teasing him about girls because he gets so embarrassed.

We do wish we had asked a few more questions initially though. For instance, we should have asked to take a look at the title so we could get the VIN number and look up the vehicle’s history on Carfax. (You may have to pay a small fee in order to see the full report on Carfax, but if you’re serious about buying the car, it’s a good idea to invest that money and take a look.)

After we got home and started looking at the title, we noticed two things:

— there’s an odometer discrepancy and
— there are beneficiaries

We put in the vehicle identification number at Carfax and it appears there’s an odometer discrepancy. The mileage is not it’s true mileage – and right now, it’s showing about 95,000 miles. This discrepancy could be one of two reasons: either it’s been tampered with, or it’s a vehicle with a 5 digit odometer and can’t accurately track mileage over 99,999.

So … we don’t really know. We’re hoping the mileage is not ACTUALLY 195,000 miles, but it’s sort of too late – we paid cash for the car, it’s our problem now.

But we’re not overly worried. It’s a Chevy, and Cavaliers are pretty common which means we shouldn’t have any problem getting parts for it and they should be fairly cheap to buy (this is always a factor whenever we buy a car – foreign cars are great, but if they break down, just HOW much is it going to cost in parts and labor? For example: one of my nephews used to drive a Jetta, which gave him problems all the time. And it cost him an insane amount of money to get it fixed each time. He finally traded it in because it was such a money pit).

Kevin is also pretty good with cars and in fact, enjoys working on them, so it’s likely he’ll be able to do most of any work that needs to be done on it.

Still though, it’s disappointing that the previous owners didn’t bring the odometer discrepancy to our attention. We certainly would, and will, when it comes time to sell this car. (I just hope it doesn’t hinder us from selling it). But ultimately, it’s our fault for not checking into things a bit more thoroughly before handing over the money and signing the Bill of Sale.

Though both sellers on the title signed off the title, there are some beneficiaries. I’m hoping this just means she put the car in her children’s names or something and doesn’t mean they have to sign the title. I don’t think it’ll be a problem, but again, we should have saved our star-struck enthusiasm for after we bought the car and asked a few more questions before proceeding with the transaction.

Learn from our mistakes, people.

Save for these little hiccups, we’re happy with the car and we certainly didn’t expect it to be perfect – it’s 10-years old, after all. We’ll deal with any problems that come up.

Now GD has plenty of time to get used to his car before taking his driver’s test. The procedures have changed since I was a teenager. He has to practice a minimum of six months and have logged in at least 40 hours of drive time (yes, we’re keeping a log). This INCLUDES 10 hours of night driving – I’m NOT looking forward to that. But that will be the last thing we attempt so he’ll be pretty confident by then.

I hope.

He can only have a licensed driver, over 21, in the car with him. This means little brother can not ride with him. GD wanted MK to ride along last night, but I said no, it wasn’t allowed and I didn’t want him to be distracted by MK. (Not to mention, he’s just not ready to have passengers yet, anyway).

So, six months from his permit issue date is September 25th. This means he should have his Intermediate license before his 17th birthday.

(I know this is probably boring for some of you, but just wait, driving becomes a BIG DEAL later. Especially with your first!)

After he passes his driver’s test, then he’ll receive an Intermediate license. This just means he can drive, but there are restrictions.

Such as:

— During the first six months, he can’t have more than one passenger, under 19-years old and who is not a member of the immediate family.

No problem with that. In fact, we’ve already told him that he is not allowed to have ANY passengers in the car with him until he’s had one solid year of driving experience under his belt.

— He can’t drive alone between 1:00 and 5:00 in the morning unless it’s to and from a school activity, a job, or an emergency.

No worries there. He shouldn’t be out at that time of night, anyway.

Then, when he turns 21 18, all he has to do is take another vision test and he can apply for a full license.

I’m really glad to see there are steps and restrictions on our young drivers, nowadays. It doesn’t seem like it was nearly this stringent when I was a kid and honestly, it needs to be. I sometimes think kids under 18 are too young to drive to begin with. But I suppose it depends on the kid.

The plan, as of now, is not to let him drive to school after he gets his license. We have a couple of reasons for that:

1. His high school is land-locked. So this means, not only is there a lot of traffic when coming and going to school, but that there isn’t a lot of room to maneuver: it’s like threading a needle sometimes and it’s nerve-wracking for me, I can’t imagine how GD would handle it.

And to top it off, his peers take risks and show off in front of each other so we’ve witnessed quite a few fender benders in just the two years he’s been going there. GD sees all of this and has told me he has no desire to drive in the middle of that. He might change his mind later, as he matures, and when that happens, we’ll re-evaluate the pros and cons of driving himself to school.

2. I don’t want to give him the opportunity to skip school. I’m not saying GD would ever do that, but it would be tempting. I should know, because I got myself into trouble, several times, for skipping school when I started driving. This way, I know he’s there and I don’t have to worry about him.

I wish ya’ll could have seen the way GD acted last night. He walked straighter, his shoulders were back, his head was held high and he just talked … differently. He took an active interest in his car and actually looked interested in what his dad was telling him about the car. We’ve turned a corner in GD’s life – he’s not a boy anymore, he’s a man.

And he’s embracing a man’s responsibility.

I’m suddenly finding it hard to breathe.

Heads or Tails is hosted by Barb a.k.a. Skittles. Thanks Barb!

This week’s prompt: Heads – See

Heads or Tails is hosted by Barb a.k.a. Skittles. Thanks Barb!

This week’s prompt: Heads – Loud

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We are not loud people.

In fact, it’s safe to say, we really can’t stand to be AROUND loud people.

I remember being shushed a lot when I was a kid. My dad got cranky when we were loud so I sort of grew up being quiet. It wasn’t until later that I really began to appreciate the art of silence.

Loud people make me nervous. Why do loud people feel so compelled to be loud? Insecurity? Attention? Why the theatrics? Loud people are obnoxious, irritating and definitely not cute, funny or even appealing when they’re loud. And don’t these loud people know that by being loud they are actually being counterproductive because no one really wants to be around a loud person?

Knowing when to shut up is a sign of maturity and a respect for those around you, quite frankly.

GD was a pretty quiet kid, MK? Not so much. He was a SCREAMER when he was little and his SCREAMS would make your ears bleed; they were loud and shrill and the tone was just one octave below your sanity level. When he got into one of his screaming fits (there were times NOTHING calmed that boy down), I actually went and sat in my car in the garage just to get my head screwed back on right before I felt calm enough to deal with him again.

I’m not a loud talker, though MK is. In fact, I had to constantly remind him when he was little (and occasionally still do now that he’s a teenager) to use his inside voice. He had a tendency to forget that the people he was talking to? Were standing right next to him.

I used to try and analyze why he felt the need to talk so loudly. Could he not hear himself? Was he just excited about something and couldn’t keep it inside? Was he trying to blow people’s eardrums? It was a mystery to me.

Loud people make me cringe. They physically hurt my ears. And loud shrill voices are the worst. In fact, its a pretty safe bet that if I find myself around that sort of person, I will politely, but quickly, exit the premises. There’s something so … uncomfortable about being around a loud person. Aside from the obvious irritating noise factor, there’s the fact that by being loud, that person is displaying his/her insecurities for all the world to see and I feel embarrassed for them.

The only time I’m ever loud with my children is when I’m scolding them. I talk in a pretty neutral voice most of the time so when I raise my voice, it really gets my kids’ attention (there’s a little tip for you new mothers – don’t raise your voice very often. Then when you do, not only will your kids sit up and take notice, they will know you mean business).

My kids do not like it when I raise my voice. I have a very harsh, even cruel, voice when I raise it and I’ve caught them actually cringing several times when I use it. Needless to say, they will pretty much do anything I ask them in order to prevent me from raising my voice.

*SCORE!*

I don’t like loud music UNLESS I’m really ticked off. Then I love to crank it up. When I get angry, it’s like my body puts off these intense heat waves and the music helps to absorb those nasty thoughts and anger vibes somehow.

My husband likes to play his guitar pretty loud. In fact, we have to shut him off in his office when he gets in one of his “moods” because it’s so loud it actually vibrates the windows and yes, our neighbors can hear it.

The only person who can not STAND loud noise, of any kind, is GD. And I think he might have sensitive ears partly because he was a preemie. Another reason I think he doesn’t like loud noises is because he’s just a sensitive kid. He has never handled strife very well in his life – he’s more of a smooth sailing, easy-going personality and doesn’t really “do” drama, of any sort or from anyone.

I think loud people, in general, are selfish and self-centered. I tend to get very impatient with people who don’t have enough sense to be quiet – especially when the situation demands it, like in a library, or during a movie.

“There are times when silence has the loudest voice”

How true, how true.

Heads or Tails is hosted by Barb a.k.a. Skittles. Thanks Barb!

This week’s prompt: Heads – Bottle

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Thought-provoking title, no?

I don’t mean bottle as in an alcoholic bottle (I don’t drink), I mean a bottle as in a lotion bottle.

When I first saw the prompt for this week’s Heads or Tails I thought of two possible subject titles:

“Pass the Bottle” and “Bottled Up.”

Though I would have preferred to talk about being bottled up, about how it’s dangerous to keep resentments and frustrations bottled up inside of you so that it finally bubbles over and the person explodes over the silliest and most inconsequential thing even though what they are REALLY upset about has nothing, whatsoever, to do with their explosion, I didn’t think I could sufficiently talk about that without revealing private information and thereby making the person who has all of this pent-up energy inside of him detonate and spew icky black anger all over my walls and make a mess for me to clean up.

Wow, that was a long sentence.

So, I wrote about it in a password-protected post and now, I feel loads better. Writing private posts really is therapeutic – bloggers, you should try it sometime.

Since “Bottled Up” was not an option, I thought I would go with plan B and write “Pass the Bottle” because it’s the safest option and suitable to publish on the Internet. Okay, maybe not suitable, but definitely safer.

I’m an Amazon woman. I’m 5’10 inches tall and I’m a size 10, on a good, non-bloating day. I have broad shoulders. I have thick arms. I have pudgy hands and I have perfect birthing hips.

I am not, even in your wildest dreams, small, petite, cute, little, pixie-like, adorable or feminine.

These are simply not words that would come to your mind if you were to meet me in real life. I am a giant. I loom. I intimidate. I am someone to look up to – not figuratively, but quite literally. I am she-woman, hear me roar.

I’ve accepted this. And most of the time, it doesn’t bother me. In fact, most of the time, I’m not even aware of how Amazon-ish I am until I see pictures of myself with my husband’s family who are all thin, shorter and more beautiful than I am.

And my mother-in-law wonders why I ABHOR family pictures with me in them. Because those pictures are an ugly, painful reminder than I’m simply not all that feminine – at least, MY definition of feminine. And though I don’t usually have a problem with self-esteem, the amount I do have dissipates into thin air whenever I see those pictures. Those family pictures are like those “I Spy” pictures – “Boys and girls, can you spot the Amazon woman? Wow! That was fast!”

Though I respect myself and my husband enough to keep myself clean, (semi) toned and thinned down, I don’t spend a lot of time on my appearance.

Sure, I put makeup on, I comb my hair and brush my teeth but those are the extent of my beauty routine. I do just enough to conform to society’s expectations.

I do not wear lipstick. I do not put a lot of thought into my clothes (unless I’m having lunch with my husband and I do that because 1. I don’t want to embarrass him in front of his co-workers 2. Because my husband deserves to see me looking my best, 3. because I deserve to see me looking my best, 4. because it makes me feel, and dare I say it, act better when I look polished and professional).

I do not wear nail polish. I do not wear jewelry, not even my wedding ring most of the time (which irks the husband and something I’m working on).

I’m not interested in fashion. I am not interested in shopping, of any kind. I could care less about purses. Or shoes (most of the time).

I don’t simper. I don’t bat my eyelashes. I don’t act girly (unless I see a big, ugly bug/spider and then all bets are off), and I don’t play head games. I have no patience for gossip. I have no interest in wasting time or energy on what someone thinks of me (for the most part).

In short, I’m an Amazon – both physically and emotionally.

But there is one (or two, possibly three) indulges that I do allow myself – lotion.

I love shopping for lotions. I love looking at the pretty bottles. I love popping the tabs and taking deep, appreciative sniffs of Rainkissed Leaves, Sensual Amber, Japanese Cherry Blossom, Coconut Lime and Black Amethyst.

I love squeezing thick, fat lines of lotion onto my freshly shaved legs and then spreading it over my skin. I love how the lotion turns the texture my otherwise tough skin into something soft, supple, and feminine.

I love how people comment about how good I smell whenever I go out. It makes me feel good. It makes me feel special. It makes me feel like a woman.

Lotions are one of the few indulgences I allow myself. I think mainly because it’s not obvious – no one knows my feminine weakness save for me and my husband.

And well, now you. 🙂

Perhaps this Amazon woman is not quite so Amazon-ish after all.

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It’s happening right now!

I’ve been meaning to do this meme for like, forever and today is the day to get started – mainly because I need something to talk about.

Thank goodness for memes.

Heads or Tails is hosted by Barb a.k.a. Skittles. Thanks Barb!

This week’s prompt: Heads – Watch

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Watch me grow old.

Or better yet, don’t watch me grow old. Because I’m going to fight this process with every fiber of my being.

Hi! I’m 43-years old. *cheerfully waves* At least, that’s what “they” claim.

According to my birth certificate, I was born in 1965. Nineteen Sixty-Five. That sounds so ancient, especially since we’re in the 2,000’s now.

Though I’m on record as having been born in 1965, that I am currently 43 years old, I don’t mentally FEEL that old. I mentally FEEL about 25 years old.

Someone check my records; there must be some mistake.

When I look in the mirror, I don’t see a 43-year old woman. I see a woman who might possibly pass for 35.

And it’s not just me, heck, I still get carded when I buy wine for my husband. (Granted Wal-Mart associates are now required to card anyone who looks to be younger than 30 but whatever, I can still pretend they think I’m not quite 21).

It’s so hard to explain how I’m feeilng without sounding cliché. You wake up one morning and you’re over 40, 50, 60 and you’re honestly surprised – how did this happen? Where did the years go?

There is something infinitely disturbing about growing old. Getting old happens to other people, it doesn’t happen to me. In my mind, the years are passing but somehow time is standing still for me. The numbers add up but the mental image of yourself does not.

At least, it doesn’t for me.

My children are growing, they are getting older. And that’s thrilling to me. I’m watching them develop into incredible people. But that’s only affecting them, it’s not affecting me. I’m still the naive, inexperienced 26-year old who didn’t recognize that her water broke and refused to go to the hospital until the last possible moment because her baby wasn’t due to be born for another eight weeks.

I try and tell myself being 40-something is not old. It’s a state of mind. It’s just a number.

It’s a high number.

Is my life half over?

What a sobering thought.

However, my age seems to be knocking on my physical door demanding to be let in or at the very least, to be taken seriously. It seems like, in just the last few months, I’ve begun noticing more aches and pains – nothing serious, but serious enough to get my attention.

I’ve always been very healthy. I’ve always pushed myself to my physical limits and bounced back the next day. Now I’m lucky if I bounce back within the week. It’s taking me longer to recuperate from vigorous workouts – much longer. I’m sore for more days and I’m so, so, so tired the next day. Which is normal anyway, especially when you start working out again, but I’ve been consistently working out and I’m still so, so, so tired.

I feel heavy, and not just the fat kind of heavy but my muscles and bones just feel heavy. Sometimes it feels like I’m walking through water, everything just feels sluggish. I’m quite confident it’s not due to a medical condition – again, I’m pretty healthy, I come from very healthy stock, and the changes I feel are subtle, but they’re there. I recognize them because I’ve always been so tuned into my physical condition.

I can usually ignore the aches and pains – I believe I have a pretty high pain threshold. If I didn’t, I’d probably be making regular visits to the doctor because quite honestly, I’m physically uncomfortable the majority of my time now.

But it doesn’t REALLY hit home until my back starts giving me problems.

I’ll be honest, one of the biggest reasons I walk is to keep my back from going out. (And here you thought I was a workout fiend. HA!) It’s when I’m an inactive slug that my back starts the tell-tale twitches and before long, I’m flat on my back and/or hobbling around like an old woman. Walking keeps my back loose and limber. After I discovered that little secret, I’ve been successful at warding off back attacks. Thank the dear Lord above.

So when my back started feeling twitchy a few days ago, I was surprised. I had been walking. I had been stretching. It had been months since my last back episode. What was the dealio, Holmes?

The only thing I can think of to explain my current back problem is that I did a lot of bending and twisting when I took the Christmas tree down. Seriously. My back is tender and sore because of that?!

Apparently.

This realization just disgusts the crap out of me. Am I so weak that I can’t even bend over and perform a simple task without my body betraying me? That’s what happens to OLD people – not to me, damn it!

I’m NOT old. I refuse to GROW old.

I know this is a natural process. I realize that it’s quite normal for my body to age, to break down, to deteriorate. But I’m not ready for that to happen yet. And I refuse to go to the doctor and get drugs because that’s what OLD people do.

At least, that’s what I will continue to tell myself until I honestly do not have a choice in the matter.