Success and MURDER (Hopefully Not Mine)

Yesterday I went to the sporting goods store where I found socks for RUNNING. This is huge. No more blisters. At least, according to Runner's World magazine, which promised no more blisters if I used socks that weren't cotton.

I also found ear buds designed especially for runners. They allow all ambient noise to come through, so you still hear what's going on around you. This is important if you don't want to be hit by a car or murdered.

I also impulse-bought a tank top because it was so pretty. Don't you judge me.

Then I met Jen for dinner.

"You really run on the Nickel Plate Trail?" Jen asked.

"Yes," I said. But she was staring at me weirdly so I continued, "Why?"

"You know someone was murdered there."

"No."

"YES," Jen told me. "It was a boy scout leader. He was stabbed."

At that point I either asked Jen why she was telling me this, or why anyone would murder anyone on the Nickel Plate Trail, I can't remember. I guess I was too much caught up by the fact that I had been running alone on Death Trail.

I did not really believe her, so I came home and looked it up. She was right. This is nowhere near where I have been running, but the fact remains, I have been walking on Death Trail, running on Death Trail, and spending time alone on Death Trail.

This means that my choices for running are as follows: I can run on Murder Trail, down Meth Alley, or be struck by many semi trucks on the highway where I live.

Fortunately, I had already decided to run after work, although not in the park because Jen has a story about the park that is creepy.

"I guess I will run around the library," I said.

"That is an option. The other one is that I run with you," Jen said.

This was the best news ever. I have what I wanted all along, a running buddy! I am very excited. This will make running way less lonely, and I will be able to complain with Jen, which is way better than complaining alone. You should always be able to whine with friends.

We then went to Target and I found a fancy bag to use for taking my running things back and forth between work and home. It is exactly the right size and has lots of space for various running paraphernalia that I cannot live without, such as my new earbuds ans also my rescue inhaler.

I tried to style it with various gym-related things that matched it. Then I noticed the dowel rod underneath the dresser from when I made Harry Potter-style wands with the teens at the library. I should probably find a better place for that.

Pockets! I think this might even fit SHOES!

Or those might. Who knows. Shoes will have a spot, though, and space. There's a zip-up pocket in there for tiny things that shouldn't be swallowed by the depths of the bag, like my keys or maybe earrings.

And there is a pocket for a water bottle on each side. So I will be less likely to forget my water when I go for a run. The best part? No giant Nike swoosh or Under Armour logo or any giant brand name. It is just a bag. And if you look, there's a logo. But if you don't look, you don't really notice it. That's way better than paying to be someone's advertisement. If I am wearing your logo, you ought to be paying me.

Just imagine, though. I don't have to run all alone! This is huge.

Running Is Expensive

I own so many tote bags, it is ridiculous. One year I went to BEA, and when I was there, publishers were giving out tote bags with various awesome book covers on them, and I collected tote bags all week until they needed their own suitcase to get home.

So this is not a problem I should be having, but it is.

I have no gym bag. I have no gym, either, because the YMCA in town demands a pint of blood, one lung OR one kidney OR a portion of liver, 1/24th of my yearly income*, and the applicant's firstborn child in exchange for membership. But I am going to start running after work instead of carving out a chunk of every Saturday and Sunday for my run. This will also mean I will be allowed to take a rest day. Imagine that. But to run after work, I need a way to carry my stuff from home to work.

So I pulled all my tote bags out of the closet. First I put back all the ones that lacked zippers, because I don't want my sports bra to be visible to everyone I share an office with. There are six of us in Youth Services at the library and that's about five more people** than I want to see my bra.

Then I was left with five different bags. I put my running gear into the cutest one. Then I tried to put my shoes inside, too. Except the shoes would not fit along with the shirt, leggings, sports bra, and socks inside the bag. So I tried the next bag. Same problem. Then the next. Same problem. All of the bags were too small for running clothes AND the shoes. They were also too small for my work clothes, even if I didn't try adding shoes to the mix.

I thought I'd try a backpack, but I gave all those away when I realized that any future educational opportunity would involve me buying a new backpack because buying school supplies is so exciting.

So now I have to go to Target or maybe the sports equipment store this weekend and buy a gym bag of some kind. This is annoying because if I have to spend money on sports things, I want the money to go toward buying fancy clothes so I look cute before I start running. Cuteness does not last for very long due to the fact that I quickly develop the complexion of a lobster post-stock pot.***

I want one with a separate pocket for shoes, because I think that's cool.

I also want one that will make running infinitely easier. I am told that they don't make gym bags that do that, but I'm going to try to find one anyway.

While I am at the sports store, I am going to find socks not made of cotton in order to prevent the running blister situation from happening again. Also maybe I will find a reason to carry on.

* This is actually true.

** I am the only one allowed to see my bra.

*** Basically, I have to make sure my running clothes match my red face.

I Still Suck at Beauty Blogging and I Found Another Thing I Like

I accidentally found the best nail polish ever. This is a thing that happened.

I went to T.J. Maxx, which is a holy place. It has everything, and it has it cheaper than at other places, and the only store that compares with its majesty is Marshall's, and Marshall's is owned by the same company as T.J. Maxx. It is like a surprise every time you go there. One day you'll find the perfect handbag, the next you'll find the Le Creuset dutch oven you've wanted for the last five years, in a discontinued color and therefore for over half off. Another time you'll find a whole rack of exercise clothing, with the perfect running shorts for $5 each. It's the happiest place on earth, and I go there any time I can.

I was sorting trough their soap section (they have lovely soap) and I found a tub of nail polishes, and one of them was Butter London in the color Thames.

The Brown Driving Mocs

I love my brown driving mocs.

I found them at Target years ago, for, if I remember correctly, around $20. They reminded me of the J. Crew driving mocs I could never afford (unless I sold off some major organs), and I snatched them up and ran to the check-out like I was being pursued by rabid shoe-eating demons.

Women's Merona Micaela Moccasins from Target. Picture yoinked from Kaboodle, your source for shoes you wish you could still buy. Like these.

That is what they looked like back when they were all new and pretty.

They served me well. I wore them nearly every day for...more years than I probably should have.

See, I have this thing with fashion. I like fun, quirky, different things, and I like classic designs. That's normal, I suppose. The thing that may someday get me drug out to face Stacy and Clinton, though, is my firm belief that if I like it, and I think whatever article of clothing or accessory is cute, fun, and ME, then it is in style and no one can tell me otherwise.

Take that, Fashion Industry.

So when Target stopped selling knock-off driving mocs, and J. Crew stopped selling not-knock-off driving mocs, and all the other places stopped selling any kind of moc, except for that Minnetonka Moccasin place, I still kept right on wearing my brown driving mocs. Because I loved them.

The think with the little mocs was, they weren't made to last a girl five-ish years. Or six...and that's about how long I've had them.

They stretched. They got dirty. I cleaned them, added an insole, and kept wearing them. The insole rubbed my heels funny, so I got those little heel cushion things you stick on the inside of shoes, and that fixed it. They were fine...until the "suede" of the shoe absorbed the adhesive of the stick-on heel cushions, leaving dark marks on the back of each heel. Sticky dark marks.

I was very sad.

Devastated.

Clearly, I needed to replace the little brown driving mocs.

There was only one problem: No one wanted to sell me replacement mocs. No one. Not even Ebay.

I was ready to pay for these mocs, folks. I was ready. I had already planned it out. See, my love for the mocs was so great, I was willing to pay double, triple, or MORE for a new pair, a nicer pair, one that would presumably last me decades into the known future. I would pay for good shoes and then care for them like the children I don't have, with the kind of love a person only gives to their spawn (or their little furry dogs).

But no one was selling the adorable driving mocs. They were only selling bizarre, animal print ballet flats.

What was up with those? I am glad they are gone now.

The next year (because yes, we're talking years, here), I searched again. This time, I discovered that the flats had become solid colored, but still of the ballet variety. I gave up and bought a pair of those. They hurt.

So at the start of summer, with only the same, boring, solid-colored flats to be seen, I gave up and bought a nice black pair that didn't hurt my feet, thinking that they would be good enough to fill the yawning hole in my heart left behind by the driving mocs.

Nope.

But then, just after I'd given up hope, I found them.

Frye Reagan Campus Driver in Saddle, via Zappos.

These are not exactly identical to my Target mocs, but they are very similar. In fact, I like these MORE.

So if you catch me admiring or petting my shoes in public...now you know why.

Shame and Semi-Nudity: Laura Goes Jean Shopping

None of my jeans fit me anymore, so I had to go jean shopping.

You see, when my gallbladder was coughing, sputtering, and dying, I was also losing weight, lots of it. During the fall, I had broken down and bought size 12 pants, because I wanted to conceal everything, and I was certain they would be too tight by winter. I was wrong.

When your gallbladder goes kaput, you stop being able to digest things like...food. So your body says, NO WAY, and what results is a kind of involuntary bulimia. That's the nice way to say, I threw up a LOT. It was unpleasant in the extreme. I cannot express that enough.

I lost weight fast, mostly because I stopped eating anything but bagels. Bagels were delicious and they didn't make me feel like death. They stayed (more or less) comfortably inside my stomach. They lacked variety, but who cared? They were food, and they took the edge off of my soul-shattering hunger.

Goodbye gallbladder.

I don't know exactly what all the symptoms are for Gallbladder Death, but they must be more than just stomach issues. I think my gallbladder made me gain weight. I don't know how, but it MUST have. Because even since FIXING the gallbladder by getting it the heck out of Dodge and returning to my normal diet (lots of cookies, lots of Italian food), I still kept dropping weight.

Remember how I said I'd been a size 12? Yeah. That didn't last. By the time I had my gallbladder removed, I had already snatched up size 10 pants. They still fit beautifully after my surgery, and for about a month afterward.

I went jean shopping today, and I am now a size 6 again, which was my college size. Hence, my Dying Gallbladder Made Me Gain Weight Theory.

I find that whole process so shocking, I just had to share it with you. Also, I've told my family like a thousand times, and they don't find it interesting anymore. But I do. So you get to hear it. Again.

Jean shopping.

I always hate it. Why? Because I know EXACTLY what I like in pants, and I want to buy only jeans that fit that criteria, despite the fact that fashion disagrees with me. Wide flares? Eww. Skinny jeans? Only with my tall Frye boots. The Epic, Steampunk Boots. The ones that now have a fixed zipper that is amazing.

I want a jean that is not distressed*. If my jeans have holes in them, I want to have put them there myself, by falling down a flight of stairs or catching them on a nail of some kind. If jeans are already worn out, I want a discount, because that means they will last me less time. Stores do not agree with me on this issue. They charge MORE. So I won't buy distressed jeans.

I want a jean that doesn't have a giant flare. I like a jean that doesn't conceal my awesome shoes. I also like a jean that fits me through the hip and thigh, not too tightly (I like having circulation in my toes) but not so loosely that I can grab tons of fabric or put both of my legs in one pant leg. So, no "relaxed" jeans for me.

In other words, it took me a long time to find pants at The Buckle today.

I went there this time, because I needed serious professional help. Losing all that weight meant I was back to buying pants for College Laura, and College Laura was long gone. Current Laura didn't remember what kind of pants College Laura bought**, and Current Laura also had no idea what size she was anymore. And I had noticed on The Buckle's website that they were having a giant jean sale, so that meant fancy jeans CHEAP. And I like that.

Are you bored yet? I hope so. Because that will make this next part even more entertaining for you.

The Buckle I went to has stupid dressing rooms. Firstly, they are in the corners of the room, so each door opens toward the other, meaning you can slam innocent people in the face with your door, or jump out of the dressing room at each other, both of which happened to me and a really nice lady who maybe used to work there.

Secondly, the rooms are right there in the middle of everything, not back in a little hallway all on their own. I think this is to help the salespeople help you find jeans that fit you. But really, it just means you walk out to see the mirror in full view of every other shopper, even if you look like a freak.

Thirdly, the doors are the kind that don't fill up the whole door frame. The door starts at about my knees, and ends level with the top of my head. Or my eyes, whatever. That's not important. What's important is that you'd better shave your pale, ghostly legs when you go to try on jeans, because if you don't, everyone will know.

My exacting jean preferences meant that there were tons of jeans draped over my door and more inside for me to try on. Everyone now knew my approximate size, so I had a giant pile I could try on without fear. The jeans, I was sure, would more or less fit me, and I could just examine them in the mirror outside, where I would determine how gross / good I looked in them. Meanwhile, my poor handknitted socks were droopy, and I was afraid to lean over and pull them up, because I didn't want to accidentally bend over too low, and show the whole store my posterior.

One pair of jeans felt not-stretch.

So I pulled them over my calves. I pulled them to my knees. That was when I could tell that these jeans were so not a six. They were more like a double-zero. I had to get them off before I split the seams and had to pay for them!

Did I mention this dressing room had no chair? No stool, no bar to hold on to? Nothing? I was along with a giant pile of jeans and only my balance to keep me on my feet as I struggled out of jeans and discarded them, but this time, my balance wasn't enough.

I don't really know what exactly happened. Maybe I tried to shimmy a little to free up one leg. I may have blacked out. Or maybe my legs, starved of blood flow, had just given out in protest. But as I tried to free my right leg, I fell.

Remember the door? Remember how it stopped at knee length?

Now I was on the ground, with my pants at my ankles. My underwear-clad bum was exposed for all the store to see, and my legs were trapped in pants that wouldn't allow me to leap back to my feet.

I was down, and my undies were on display, and I suddenly realized the wipe-out had given me rug burn on my arse right upper thigh that I was sure would be misinterpreted by anyone who happened upon semi-naked girl, writhing on the ground in too-small pants, trying to free herself so she could conceal her naked shame.

You know me, guys. I was raised in an endless succession of churches. Most of them very conservative. And I was taught that nakedness, especially female nakedness, was evil. And if you were naked in daylight in public, that was extra bad and gave you points on your Punch Card of Sin, and everybody knows the more points you get on that card, the closer you are to an eternity in Hell.

That means that for every second my mini peep show went on, I became more and more horrified and certain that I could never leave the dressing room again. I would have to die there, and I hadn't brought any extra yarn to knit with.

I think the whole thing happened in under 15 seconds. But it didn't matter. God had seen, and I was sure that inside my brain, the eight year-old me could hear Satan laughing and offering up candy and TV a little closer than she'd heard him before.

I stood, in my underwear, and I waited.

No laughter came. No gasps. No screams or shouts. No ominous clicks of cell phone cameras...nothing.

The sound and bustle of the store continued just as it had before I fell.

That made me wonder...had anyone actually seen? Hope swelled inside me. I grabbed the next pair of pants and slipped into them. Then I cracked the door open and peered outside. No one was in my corner!

Yes, when I had been given a dressing room, it was in the far corner of the store. As far from the men's side as could be, as far from the entrance as possible. Indeed, the corner had been empty when I fell, and it was empty still. Suddenly, I started giggling.

Nice Girl Next Door gave me a strange look as she emerged to look at the cute sweater she was trying on in the mirror outside (there was only one mirror). I ducked back into my room. The giggling was quickly approaching hysterical laughter. I grabbed my cell phone and told Twitter what happened.

Just wiped out in Buckle dressing room. Door stops at knee level. And #nopants. #shame #afraidtocomeout

Twitter is always the first to know when these things happen.

I could go on and tell you how exactly I came to recount the wipe-out story to every salesperson at The Buckle, including the sole male salesperson, who happened to be stopping by to help find straight legged jeans. Or I could just show you the picture my mom snapped of me as I recreated the fall.

This is why I hate jean shopping. I just can't be trusted in public.


*I do not care about various washes, although I prefer darker jeans. The jeans I hate are the ones that have been attacked by a pumice stone in spots, or the ones that already have giant holes in the legs or knees. No, thank you.


**That's probably because College Laura didn't have money to buy jeans, so she just used the same two pairs until they fell apart, and begged for another pair at Christmas.