Sweets, the fall of many a good woman
It’s happening again. My closet is bursting at the seams with
spring and summer offerings that need to be packed away to make
room for fall and winter’s new arrivals. The problem is, I have
little space and also little money, so a lot of my cooler weather
wardrobe is in reruns.
Sweets, the fall of many a good woman
It’s happening again. My closet is bursting at the seams with spring and summer offerings that need to be packed away to make room for fall and winter’s new arrivals. The problem is, I have little space and also little money, so a lot of my cooler weather wardrobe is in reruns.
I’ve begun the task of prying out my T-shirts and skinny-strapped items from the jumble of hangers, tangled in the closet organizer that The Husband had installed to help control the mess. (None of them wire, since Faye Dunaway scared the ” a hanger is a hanger” out of me in Mommie Dearest. “No more wire hangers, ever,” for this girl.)
I vaguely remember needing that yellow spring dress with the flowers on it that wound up crumpled against the back wall of the closet. I’d looked everywhere for that thing.
Since I was reorganizing, I thought that I might as well try some of the winter stuff on, to be sure it all still fit. Most of it did, but a few key items were reminders that I really shouldn’t have had that extra piece of strawberry shortcake over July 4th weekend, eaten the entire See’s chocolate bar that The Husband brought me or scarfed down three S’mores at the camp-out with the girls from work, followed by several handfuls of Reese’s Pieces and the occasional marshmallow, awaiting roasting.
Sweets, my obvious downfall. My closet is a virtual diary of my eating patterns.
It all started after The Girl came along. I was home, with a baby. I was happy, content and in my robe most of the time. I don’t think I even noticed when I was cinching the belt just a little more loosely than the week before.
The Husband doesn’t just bring me flowers. He brings me candy. He brings me Starbucks mocha, he brings me an entire cheesecake. Not that I have actually eaten an entire cheesecake, but the idea that he knows that sweets can get him out of all sorts of trouble is amusing to me. Amusing because it’s been true. Until now. I am wise to you, Keith. I see what you’re doing. Forget to take the trash out? No problem, this Hershey’s with almonds bar should handle it.
Not that he is exclusively to blame. I’m worse than The Kids when I go shopping. And I usually shop by myself. Note to self: never go grocery shopping when you’re hungry. Big mistake. I have gone intending to just pick up some cold cuts for lunches for the week, and the next thing I know, I have $15 worth of Hostess Twinkies in my carriage and am reaching for the Klondike bars in the frozen foods section. And worse still, I actually try to convince myself that the Twinkies are for The Kids.
I am beginning to think that I need a sponsor. You know, like in AA. I can see it now: “Hi, I’m Kelly and I secretly like Twinkies.”
Fellow Twinkie-Lovers in unison: “Hi, Kelly.”
Then, there was the two-year stint in Alaksa. What else is there to do, but sit at home and eat brownies and sip hot cocoa while the snow blows around in minus-70 degrees below zero in the pitch darkness of one o’clock in the afternoon? Not to mention that I was once again at home with a baby.
The Boy would herald the Coming of the Elasticized Pants. And not just sweat pants, either. I began to think there was something wrong when I was finding elasticized jeans comfortable and yet stylish. More denial.
Fall is upon us once more, and to me, that has always meant cocooning under a throw on the couch with a good book and a couple of chocolate chip cookies. It might be about time to trade those cookies in for some rice cakes.
I don’t even want to know what’s after the Elasticized Pants stage. My closet’s too small as it is.
