Posts Tagged 'fashion'

fallen down the croc hole

Okay, y’all. We need to have a conversation about crocs.

Not croc…odiles

Crocs

Those ridiculous, come in every color of the rainbow, add charms and bedazzle them until they’re more gaudy than before, how’s that’s even possible I don’t even know, Crocs.
Since forever I have been vehemently against the croc movement.

Let me play the Never Have I Ever game and ask me about Crocs and my sign would absolutely say N E V E R.

Now that we are clear on that, let us completely change direction and talk about our kitchen. 

More specifically, our floor.

Well, if I’m being thorough it’s more like our kitchen and laundry room and hallway and half bath and the area beyond the kitchen that’s supposed to be a living area but has been overrun by dog beds and dog toys and Kellan’s “work station” (aka the place to pile ALL THE THINGS so no actual work ever even happens there so we may as well just call it an “open closet with no doors”).

These floors are where we spend probably…ehhhhh….75-80% of our day. So lots of walking and standing and general being on your feet-ness happens on these floors.

We bought this house as “new to us but not new at all” and so the previous owners had redone the kitchen and in doing so, decided to redo the floor. Granted, this house has been around the block puhlenty of times and has had maaaaaany of owners and I am hella glad they took it upon themselves to put in new flooring.

But this floor you guys.

Not only did they decide to buy IMPORTED ITALIAN TILE (that was ZOMG expensive when we had to buy like 10 tiles when we redid the half bathroom because they apparently thought the dark red monkey and pineapple tree wallpaper, among other poor design choices like a vanity that was so big you could barely close the door, was worth saving), but they also didn’t do anyone any favors in the comfort department because this floor is like walking and standing on the hardest, most unforgiving surface you can imagine. 

Without shoes. 

Because we don’t wear shoes in this house. 

My feet and calves would literally ache every night when I went to bed. A throbbing ache that wouldn’t let me sleep and basically screamed, “FLIMSY HOUSE SHOES AND SOCKS AREN’T CUTTING IT!” I would wake up in the morning and hobble down the stairs because my feet, more specifically my plantar fascia tendon, was so sore and so stiff that it just decided to start protesting the second I put my foot to the ground in hopes I’d listen and do something.

So, finally, after putting up with it and dealing with the pain for two years (I’m a glutton for punishment apparently), I decided to try and find some shoes that were easy to get on, comfortable, and would support my feet.

Naturally, I went to Zappos. They are my favorite way to buy shoes because A: I don’t have to go anywhere, which leads to B: It saves me actual hours of time because I have Sasquatch feet and finding shoes in my size is always a disappointing wild goose chase. Anyone with feet bigger than a size 8.5 don’t deserve to wear nice shoes. Apparently all of us size 11 and aboves should just head straight to the men’s section. Do not pass go. Do not look at anything that sparkles because it will not be in your size.

Anyway. Zappos. 

I start my search for indoor shoes and house shoes and supportive shoes. I add some options to my cart to compare. 

I keep searching.

I have decided that I need to do this right if I’m going to wait two years to do it at all.

And what does the search pop up?

Crocs.

What are you doing to me, Zappos????

CROCS?!

Did we not already have this conversation about acceptable shoes? I’m so happy you have lots of size 11 options but I think we’ve gone too far here. We are stepping out of bounds. 

Throw the flag. 

Blow the whistle.

We don’t do Crocs.

Then my feet reminded me in no uncertain terms that they were having a full on rebellion and if I ever wanted to walk again  – without pain – I better buck up.

Sooooooooo I hesitantly clicked on them. 

The Crocs.

And wouldn’t you knownit? These shoes had like….no wait….let me get the actual number….These shoes have one thousand three hundred and seventy six reviews and five stars. 

If one thousand three hundred and seventy six people are taking precious time out of their life to sing this many praises for these godforsaken shoes, I may as well read what they had to say.

And they said everything I hoped they wouldn’t. 

They said they were perfect house shoes. Perfect for plantar fascia issues. Perfect for hard floors. Perfect perfect perfect heart smiley emojis sunshine and rainbows.

In my brain…the rational part…the part that said NO WAY was like, well, I can always return them, right? I can say I gave it my all and it just didn’t work out and these people have no idea what they are talking about.

Heh. Crocs.

So…..I can’t even believe I’m admitting to this….so after much waffling, I bought myself a purple pair and Kellan a green and blue pair.

And then before they came we randomly left for LA for two weeks and I forgot about them (that’s acting life for ya).

When we got back home, I started wearing the crocs…because I had to do something for my feet or else (that’s what they said).

And low and behold! They were the most amazing shoes I had ever put on my feet! They looked ridiculous! I felt ridiculous! I loved them!

No more foot issues. No more screaming calves.

Hallelujah! I AM A BELIEVER!

I think I told Tim every day for at least a month straight how amazing my Crocs were. How they had solved all my problems and were so easy to clean! So fast to put on! So perfect for every situation!

Tim just rolled his eyes like suuuuuure. Whatever you say, sweetheart.

Then, one morning, Tim comes hobbling into the kitchen all, “oh…ouch…ohhhhhhh I was on my feet too long in here yesterday and I wasn’t wearing shoes.”

I saw my window and I jumped right through it.

You need to get a pair of Crocs.

Tim side eyes me all say whhhaaat? No way am I wearing Crocs.

And like the overly enthusiastic convert I was, I grabbed my phone and pulled them up on Zappos and tried to have him see the light that was CROCS.

BUT LOOK! So many color options! Special kinds for men! Here! Try mine on! You don’t understand! These shoes are ah-mazing!!! They will change your life! 

Tim finally….hesitantly….picked out a pair.

I ordered them faster than he could get the words out to tell me he changed his mind.

You won’t regret this! ::dazzle super smile DING star flashing off my teeth::

Once they came I was like an incessant grandma: DO NOT FORGET TO WEAR YOUR CROCS!

And Tim would be like OMG. FINE.

As the days went on, he slowly started to begrudgingly agree that the shoes really were useful, but he never outright said it. He wouldn’t wear them outside for yard stuff. And he’d only sometimes put them on if he was “going to be on his feet for awhile.”

Then, the night of the tornado happened. The night he was jolted awake by me running down the stairs yelling all kinds of words at him that were basically HONEY! TORNADO! SHELTER! NOW! TORNADO! NOW! SHELTER! NOW!

I ran into the kitchen. I put on my crocs. Kellan stumbled into the kitchen in his pajamas and what did I have him put on?

Crocs.

After Tim finally made his way into the shelter and we all got our bearings and took a breath, I look over at him and said, “Are you wearing any shoes??”

Because honestly we all hustled our asses out the door as fast as possible and I’m not even sure how I had the wherewithal to remember shoes for me or for Kellan and I sure as hell did not even think about Tim’s feet.

Tim looks at me with this YAH DON’T EVEN GO THERE look and says, “my Crocs.”

I had to stifle a laugh because priorities (read: tornado) but I know my face said enough. It said it all.

And Tim, seeing my look, shoots back a pleading, “but they were just so easy to put on!

::waggles my purple croc covered foot in the air toward Tim::

Don’t I know it.

I *want* to be that person…but I’m not

Tim: I just wanted you to know that Kelly (his haircut person I saw for the first time on Saturday) said, completely unsolicited, by the way, “Wow! She’s so pretty!”

Me: Are you sure she was referring to me? Because really. Zero makeup, hair in a messy ponytail thing, bags under my eyes? Food or deodorant or both – probably – on my clothes? And besides, you pay her.

Tim: Um. I don’t pay her for unsolicited compliments.

Sigh.

You know, there actually was once a time in my life where I was petrified of leaving the house without makeup, having my hair pretty, and wearing the *perfect* outfit.

I even wore makeup to basketball practice, where I would get sweaty and hot and bang up on anyone under the basket trying to get a rebound.

But, you better believe I’d look good running up and down the hardwood (basketball court for the sports illiterate).

Then, at some point in college, I started caring less. And less. And less.

And soon, I was wearing sweatpants to class without a stitch if makeup, smirking as the freshman who were all dolled up, though secretly wishing I had the energy and desire to put that much effort into my morning.

Becoming a mom made me not care at all. Did I accomplish all of the non-neggotiables? Shower? Brush my teeth? Put on deodorant? Am I wearing pants? Check, check, check, check?

We’re good to go.

A shower is kind of like my thing. Do not expect an overly pleasant conversation – or more than a one word, curt response – until I’ve had my shower and I can remove the swamp from my mouth.

My mom learned this wonderful tidbit about my personality a looooooong time ago. There would be arguments over absolutely nothing in the mornings before school until she figured out that I needed time – and a shower – to wake up and become a pleasant person instead of a raging (okay, maybe not raging) beast of a human. A simple question like, “do you want toast for breakfast?” had the potential to set me off all, “I’m not even hungry!”

Okay – I think I just took a detour from the point I was trying to make…moral of the story: don’t mess with me or ask me questions until I’ve had a shower and I approach you, capisce (“cah-peesh” people)? End tangent.

So, my whole point was that I no longer care that I do not wear makeup unless it is some kind of occasion that calls for that kind of extra effort. I’ll curl my eyelashes because it takes like, a minute, but that’s usually the extent of my beauty regimen.

Thing is, though? I would love to spend an extra twenty minutes to do all the frilly stuff. I just…don’t have an extra twenty minutes and even if I did?

Doubtful I’d start spending it in front of a mirror. I would like to say I would, but, obviously, if I’ve gone this long (think college) without actually caring….I don’t see it changing any time soon.

I want to be that person who cares…who always looks put together…never frumpy…wears makeup to go to the grocery store…but I’m just…sigh. I’m just not her.

*Unless* I’m invited to do the kinds of activities that require a cute outfit, curled hair, and a pretty face.

Unfortunately, buying food, running errands, and toddler play dates do not fall into that category.

I honestly cannot remember the last time I wore cute shoes and wasn’t wearing a nursing tank under my regular clothes. Oh. Wait. It was almost nineteen months ago.

(Related: Tieks, please help…my feet. Do you make size 11…and potentially a half?).

I’m more for convenience and comfort than style, because I cannot be chasing a kid through a playground with a dress on. Hello, awkward situation waiting to happen.

Fashionista I am not. Someone may want to call that intervention show where they throw away all your clothes and give you a better wardrobe. I think we may be at that point. I’m so far down the frumpy path that I can’t see the forest for the trees.

*bump update* it finally happened!! also: bangs…

I guess fate had me forgetting my headphones and foregoing an hour on the elliptical to, instead, act a fool on the aerobic step thingy this morning during a cardio circuit class (that I rarely ever attend).

I think I’ve mentioned before that I am zero percent coordinated when it comes to those aerobic step things…my arms and legs don’t seem to want to communicate with each other so I’m usually doing the opposite of whatever the instructor is telling us to do.

It got to the point where, at one point, we were doing something called a “figure eight” (which I still don’t fully understand) and I almost collided with the person in front of me.

She laughed all, “It’s ok……” and then moved her bench five feet forward.

And that probably would have gotten me all hot and bothered…EXCEPT.

At the end of the class, there is this conga line thing where we all have to copy the instructor down a long line of aerobic step things (I ended up behind a person whose coordination skills were worse than mine – how is that even possible?!). It’s slightly humiliating (read above, RE: coordination) and at one point, we were supposed to straddle the steps and jump-hop-squat down the line.

Pregnant chick (me) can’t – and really isn’t supposed to – lift her body off the ground with both feet to jump-hop-squat and then land forcefully back on the ground in any kind of situation.

So pregnant chick improvised and skip-shuffled, instead.

The second time around doing this little dance of mine, the lady behind me (who, it is vitally important to note, I have never seen before or spoken to ever in my entire life) was all, “Yah…I didn’t think you should be doing that…I’m not sure I could catch a baby!”

And then made a cradling motion with her hands behind my rear.

OMG!

SHE KNEW I WAS PREGNANT.

AND NO ONE EVEN TOLD HER!

IT FINALLY HAPPENED!!!!!!

(that must mean I am, indeed, out of Denial and truly with child)

(excuse me while I do my happy dance…….!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

I laughed and was all, I hope a baby doesn’t come yet!” while on the inside I was all, “YOU COULD TELL I WAS PREGNANT!!! YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THIS MEANS!”

So, are you seeing what she saw?

The bump…at 25 weeks and 3 days:

Tim says this particular shirt hides my bump more than some other outfits I have…maybe we’ll have to do a picture with another outfit and this one to see if there is a difference?

I’m hoping I don’t end up with an ass-bump…like the kind that are the same size and proportion to your baby bump…here’s hoping.

Also?

I got something along the lines of bangs over the weekend…whatcha think?!

(This is post-shower, no makeup…so……yah. Yikes)

And I’m totally not trying to be a nudge but…I’m currently losing the Atlanta Track Club sign contest to something about stinky runners.

Something about that just isn’t right.

I hear you can vote once a day until 11/11…and I also hear you can potentially win a $50 gift card just for voting…so, if you have a spare moment, could you go (again) and pretty, pretty, pretty please vote for my sign on Atlanta Track Club’s page (Jessica B) – “Your runners high? It’s probably not coming…”? Puuhhllease?

HERE! VOTE HERE! 

Please?…with sugar and sparkles and everything warm and fuzzy on top?

(You can vote once a day…did I mention that part already?)

cross dressing…not that kind…

I always wanted to be THAT girl in middle and high school.  The one that walked into to school on the first day with an entourage…the one everyone wanted to be around…she could do no wrong and her makeup was always perfect…the one all the guys wanted to date.

THAT was supposed to be ME.

I tried so hard to figure out HOW to BE her.  I would read every teen magazine I could get my hands on, hoping to find the secret to becoming she-who-walked-on-air somewhere amongst the eye shadow and skirts and boy advice.  How else did you know what to do to earn instant popularity?  It doesn’t just HAPPEN.  Everyone knows that. DUH!

I never did find it…and I was never a trend setter.  Let’s just put it that way.

Actually, I now realize I had it all backwards.  Had I been my geeky, goofy self I would have probably gotten more popularity points.  However, I was too terrified to be anything other than what was the current fad.  I wouldn’t wear anything out of style or dye my hair green or wear crazy socks (unless, of course, they were cool).  I stayed away from anything that had the potential to make someone say “ewww….she’s weird/gross/strange.”  I may not have had much of a “rep” but I surely wasn’t going to tarnish the small one I built.

Because my fear of being un-cool was so immense, I would not step one foot out of my house without makeup or wear pajamas to the grocery store or put my hair in a ponytail unless it was SUPPOSED to look like it was in a ponytail.

My biggest must-never-happen-so-help-me-god-I-would-rather-die-alone?  I refused to wear Nike and Adidas at the same time. Or Levi’s jeans with an l.e.i top. Or Abercrombie and Old Navy together.  In my teenage brain, THAT was CROSS DRESSING.  It was the eighth deadly sin.  One that, if caught, your prospect to be cool went right down the toilet.  I would have been MORTIFIED if someone saw I had TWO DIFFERENT BRANDS PLASTERED ON MY ASS.  I would have rather let out a big, stinky fart in the middle of class than wear Calvin Klein and LL Bean at the same time.  I was certain that once someone realized my fashion faux pas, my picture would end up on posters all over the school with a mustache or horns or one big, bugged-out eye scribbled on my face with a sharpie.  The words above my head would simply state “CROSS DRESSER!”

I didn’t discuss my fear with anyone.  It was uncouth.  It was worse than realizing you’ve worn the same shirt twice in one week.  My only exception was shoes…because I could only wear so much Nike and I never saw a Nine West or a Keds outfit and to keep my self sane I rationalized that no one could see the brand name on my feet, anyway.

At some point, I don’t remember when… but boy do I remember the relief I felt when someone rescued me from my fashion prison and handed me a definition of “cross dressing.”

I could finally mix and match brands. Oh the FREEDOM!

And  I thought I was un-cool before… I think I hear a toilet flushing…


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