Time for New Tricks?

For most of my post prepubescent years, I've made a point of looking in on other couples' relationships from the outside, all judgmental and opinionated:  How in the world can she SHARE an email with him?  The same Facebook account?  A bank account?  Doesn’t she want her own life?  Her own secrets?  Space from him?  How can she not worry when he’s at the bar with his buddies? Doesn’t she get jealous that he’ll flirt with someone prettier (younger, with bigger boobs and no saggy belly?).

This ‘sharing’ people do was so foreign to me, even with being married twice.  I needed MY space. MY time.  MY life.  I was ‘set in my ways.’  I’ve never ‘felt like’ fighting for any relationship I’ve been in.  Counseling?  Waste of time.  I know, not the romantic me you’re used to.  Imagine when I learned this:

Turns out you can teach an old bitch new tricks.

Come to find out, 99.9% of the issue has been within my own personality: the penchant to ‘pick’ the easy guys that were so unlike me that it was easy to keep ‘my space.’  Men who wouldn’t test me because they probably didn’t really care either.  I positioned myself as the ‘disposable wife’ and found the perfect niche for myself.  No real demands.  But no real gain.

Until now. 

Imagine my bafflement when I find my thoughts headed now down unfamiliar and thoroughly terrifying paths.  Paths that, best case scenario, will lead to a complete refurbishment of what I have ever known relationships to be.  Fight?  Damn straight, I'll fight.  Ha, worst case scenario, I dangle myself over the edge and freak out at the last minute.  Wait.  That sounds like a skipping record…

Sounds positively Donna Reed.  Time to bring out my Park Lane pearls.  Buy a pair of Stuart Weitzman pumps.  And rewrite the manual of Jen Marr.  

I'm pretty sure one of the chapters will focus on how to change your Facebook relationship status and how to take 'couplesies.' ;)

Winning

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There are a lot of things that I was poised never to believe possible:  that I could go a week without wanting a glass of vino; that I could get my kids up and out the door on a consistent basis in time for the bus (7:00 am departure time); that I would stop snoozing the alarm 5 times in the morning; that I could drop a few pounds and feel great while doing it; that I would find the courage to start believing…

And when this believing began, so did the panic attacks.  The tightening of my chest, the shortness of breath - every time I’m with my kids or think about …well…not so fast as THAT’S another story.  I realize now, of course, that they aren’t ‘panic’ attacks but the love and strength and peace I feel inside of me attacking the fear that I’ve used as a shield for so SO long. 

I pray that I feel those ‘attacks’ forever.  They are my proof that I’m winning – not the Charlie Sheen Tiger Blood-type of winning, of course, but the Jen Marr-I’m Gonna Be Just Fine-type of winning.

Love.

Strength.

Peace.

The trifecta.

Enough to Fit a Tea Cup?

I really think every person has something that they HATE to go shopping for. That item that they need, but break out in hives just thinking about stopping at the store and grabbing it off the shelf/rack/wall/bin.  A scientific quick poll at the office unearthed these detested shopping items:

household furnishings 

This guy was VERY anti Bed Bath and Beyond - it was a bit scary

shoes

This guy's Fred Flintstone feet make shoe shopping sucky.

 jeans

The nice ones are all too long which is royally shitty when you're slightly height-challenged

 condoms

Remember the story of me trying to 'hide' the condoms in my general purchase by also buying Vaseline and a ruler?  No freaking lie.

For me it's bras.

Especially since I found out Victoria's Secret:  she doesn't like top heavy ladies with cantaloupe-shaped girls.

I'm pretty certain my bra angst stems from deeply instilled trauma from my first bra-buying experience.  I think the word I shall use to describe it is...MORTIFYING.  (Cue really sad and depressing music) I was in 5th grade and my mother decided that my bee-sting breasts needed to be covered.  Off to Hills we went.  Where we saw almost every person in our extended family and a handful of classmates to make sure there was maximum embarrassment.  Ah, life in a small town.

To make matters worse, the next day I wore my favorite blouse which happened to be a little see through.  SO EVERYONE KNEW I HAD A BRA ON.

UGH.

And it hasn't gotten any better.  Stores use abysmal lighting and fun-house mirrors - you might as well bring the flask right into the dressing room with you.

Add the little old lady with the measuring tape around her neck who wants to fondle you and lift you (Hey, my doctor ALWAYS tells me that my boobs are perky...) and bra shopping is a nightmare.

Fran, she's gotten her boobies. Oh, and they are so perky! 

It was out of desperation that I decided to turn toward an online company.  Really, it is the first step in becoming socially awkward and never having to leave my house again.  My cat could use a few friends...and I could wear that hat I saw online...whoa.  But, when I read the company's motto, I was hooked: "No Fitting Rooms. No Measuring Tape."  I sighed in relief.  I could go another day without seeing the wide expanse of my ass in the distorted mirror.

There was a 'fit quiz' to see what size you were.  To me, it was a little like Match.com - why are you asking me what type of guy I like when I am on a FREAKING dating website to cure my bad taste in men!  But I took the quiz anyway - spent a LOT of time looking at my girls.  Lifted, felt, compared, contrasted...it was like being in a relationship again. Rejoice!  I've posted parts of them below.  I mean, I've posted parts of the quiz...not THEM.  And really, it's a quiz you can't fail because it's all about you, right?...

What do you mean what shape am I? I'm globular.

I checked to see if they were happy or if they needed another cocktail while they were resting.

Yes, I checked.

...WRONG.  My five bras came last night and, just like my taste in men, weren't even remotely right.  I overflowed every damn one.

With a deep sign, I capitulated and came to the brutal realization that this weekend, I will have to go visit a little old lady with a tape measure around her neck.

But at least I'll get some action.