I Get Dressed in the Dark and Other Mishaps

{shoe stretching in mega-style}

I recently realized that if I took a good, long look at what I put on the morning, I would never get out of the house.  It's probably a good thing I get dressed in the dark because most days when I catch a full length glimpse of my reflection in our big windows at work, my first thought is "whaaaaaaaat?" and by then it's too late.  Fortunately (unfortunately?), my older lady coworkers seem to approve of what I have going on but I suspect from their compliments on my "color coordinating", that they mean "matching".  Someone even asked me if I bought something as a set.  Shudder.  And the day I did my hair at the very last stoplight before getting to work, someone told me they liked it.  Getting dressed in the dark and doing your hair at stoplights should not be complimented.  When I think I look adorable and the 17 minutes of hair-doing was totally worth it, no one utters a peep.

There is no justice in life.

Last weekend, I was deeply engrossed in A Discovery of Witches which someone recommended to me as not a grown up version of Twilight but in fact is exactly that.  I don't think I like any book where the main male character is a grouchy, hot vampire and where all the action is sandwiched by the main female character alternately dozing off or digging into huge plates of food.  Surely you can't be that hungry or that sleepy when you're afraid of the wrath of the entire magical world raining down on you?

Adding to my misery, a 20 something coworker asked me what I did all the time since I don't drink and all I could think of was, "I like to bake?"  Just think if one went home and baked a cake like some go home and have a glass of wine?  I would be chubby.  Real chubby.

And speaking of chubby, I took in a pair of boots to have the calves stretched and every single time I go in to pick them up one of two things happens; I cannot zip up the right boot or I zip it up and the zipper teeth burst open.  Last week, one of the guys joked that I must have a "gas pedal leg".  Bless his humorous cobbler heart for keeping me humble about my one enormous calf.

Oh, and I bought a fourth pair of pink flats.  I am officially out of control.