I have a few items in my closet that will get worn less and less. Now that we seem to be over the animal print hump, some of those items will be donated, others will be worn less frequently. I’m going to keep the three skirts I have: one gray slashed with black stripes, one a beige-brown-black cheetah print, and another sweepingly long skirt that seems to embrace the skins of reptiles and jungle beasts. They make me feel groovy. I love it. One of my managers does not. She’s my fashion adviser, and I take her gentle suggestions seriously. So while I’m going to stick to mostly animal print under garments, which I would like to assert probably will never go out of style, I will probably never wear the leopard oxford shirt again. I had already decided that when I noticed my hair blended too well with it, and it wasn’t very flattering.
Routinely, I choose what I’m wearing for work the night before. Routinely, I make a point of not changing my mind in the morning. My theory is that if the clothes fit and they match, then they’ll look fine and it doesn’t matter what my own attitude is.
However, this morning I put on an olive-green gypsy skirt and French filmy top, took off the top, tried two other tops, took off the skirt, put on a pair of gray pants, changed the top, took off the gray pants and put on brown pants, changed the top, finished my makeup and came out and changed the top.
I had planned on leaving early so I could punch in at work at 6 because I have to take the girls to the dentist. I got to work on time.
My body is changing. Aside from the peri-meno-hot-flash occurrences, I’m worried about my thickening middle, butt and thighs. Worried. Like I feel as though my bicycle riding and running has made my thighs and butt big. I have added swimming to my routine because it always had a full-body slimming effect on my frame.
I’m trying to be patient. I know muscle weighs more than fat. I know that the more muscle we have the better our metabolism behaves. I know that my body shape is tweaking itself, accommodating the exercise routines while at the same time enduring the climatic change of hormonal surges.
I’m no cougar. I’m a flirt, I crush on guys, I like to dance in my cube and at home while cooking dinner, I have fun with my husband. I’m not going to fade into the wallpaper. I’m going to be intriguing and wear funky clothes when the spirit moves me. As long as they match my hair.