The good news: I found it, and I didn't just find a bag, I fell in love with the brand that makes the bag and a few other accessories. I'm not sharing photos just yet, but if you follow me on Facebook, you were inundated with updates about my fashion find.
The bad news: We had to drive around until we found a store that had ample parking and was easy to access. Who knew it would be crazy hard to get around in a cast. Seriously.
But when we found the perfect store, that happened to be REI in Manhattan Beach, let me tell you: I was SOOO happy! My hubby was happy. We were both giddy. (this doesn't happen often).
Everyone, and I mean every. single. salesperson. that we came across was incredibly helpful and well informed. Yes, we trekked beyond our Westside comfort zone, but it was well worth it.
We found my peeps. (We, as in my hubby and me)
Besides my school bag, I also got myself a FitBit. I've been wanting one of these little buggers for some time - mostly to prove to my doctor that I walk more than enough, but there's obviously something wrong with me.
The only thing that I didn't consider is that I can't walk right now - and probably won't be able to exercise for a few more months. So the only thing the FitBit is doing right now is monitoring my sleep patterns. Which, well, SUCKS.
I can also monitor my eating and all kinds of other neat health-nutty things, but I am not there yet. Every time I look at my wrist I remember that I forgot to account for my second latte of the day.
So yes, I'm a work in progress.
Progress?
What can I tell you, I feel that I have somewhat progressed. My pain is minimal (except for the evening), and I can get around a bit more. My head, as I had mentioned before, is clear. Which means I notice EVERYTHING: I am way overdue for a haircut & color, eyebrow threading, waxing, pedicure, and a body scrub. I also need a facial, and can not wait to wear my Spanx. Something about letting it all out is so not attractive - at least not in my world.
So go figure, the day I don't feel attractive is the day I receive an email from my High School. Some peppy former cheerleader is planning our 25th High School reunion. 25th?!
What the heck - am I that old?
I turned into a psychotic stalker and have been following the thread for the reunion since I received the invite. At first it was a bit comical since every single post-high school stereotype rang true: Who was good lucking was now ugly, who was thin was now fat, gorgeous men were now bald middle-aged dads.
The more I followed the thread, the more I realized how different we all are after we graduate high school, but yet the same. The cliques started forming, and now forty-something year-old women are discussing the possibility of seeing strippers in Vegas.
Oh, yah, that...the reunion is in Las Vegas of all places.
A weekend in Las Vegas. With your High School classmates.
Let that sink it.
"Do you want to go to Vegas," I asked my hubby. "For what?" He asked, and barely looked up from his phone. He knew about the Facebook thread and seemed a bit disinterested all together.
"My 25th High School reunion. They are planning a weekend away," I retorted, while looking for some kind of disapproval.
I got no attention. What. So. Ever.
I then said the dumbest thing any woman could say to her husband:
"Maybe your ex girlfriends will be there." That is girlfriends, as in plural. As in more than one.
More than one woman that went to high school with me dated my husband.
Damn.
I said it and put it out into the universe.
Damn.
He laughed, and honestly, paid no attention.
To get his attention I started thinking about all the women he mentioned dating. Thinking. As in out-loud.
"Her name was Gina (name has not been changed because I could care less if she reads this)!" I said, quite loudly I might add.
I got his attention.
"Yah, so."
He was still looking at same damn sports score on his phone.
"Gina was the woman that went to high school with me and you dated, right?" By this point, I'm irritated. I wanted attention and I wasn't getting it.
"Yah, so." Still no interest.
"Maybe she will go to the reunion in Vegas," I retorted. "Maybe those other women you dated will also be there....wait...let me see if they are responding to the Facebook thread," my mini monolog went NO WHERE.
I blame myself. Only myself. I was getting wound-up over nothing, really.
But it bothered me. Greatly.
What do these women look like now?
Would my hubby be better off with them instead of me?
Where these women better than me?
Would my husband think that these women were better than me?
Oh. My. Gawd. All these insecurities started coming back.
I then became obsessed with finding them. All three of them. (Yes, my hubby dated three women that went to school with me - meanwhile, I had no idea he even existed until five years ago).
I found two out of the three on social media.
I showed my husband their photos, pointed out their wrinkles, mom jeans, saggy body parts, and all that stuff that comes with age. I was mean.
Horribly mean.
I then had a moment: If I was looking at other women only to point out their flaws, how many other women that are now with my ex's have possibly looked at me and done the same?
I hated myself for doing this, but I didn't regret it.
I needed to do that to feel better better about myself. But I didn't.
I couldn't go to sleep.
When I ended up in bed, I woke up in a cold sweat many times during the night only to finally wake up with a headache.
That I've had all day.
Damn it.
I make a sucky mean person.
