Just say NO! to the quarter life crisis

Dear potential victim of the quarter life crisis,

Do you feel like you are about to lose your mind if you do not walk away from your life and start over? Do you day dream about quitting your job/dropping out of school and running away to join the circus/bartend/captain a ship?

Stop right there! I have already learned this lesson for you. In a year, you will be broke, your credit will be ruined, and you will be looking for a steady, boring desk job with a steady, dependable paycheck. I promise.

In five years, you will want to settle down, have kids, buy a house. You will find Mr./Ms. Right. The two of you will get married. A few months down the road, someone will pee on a stick and get that plus sign. You will find your dream house, and you will try to buy it.

That is when the reality of your quarter life crisis blunder will settle comfortably around you and begin choking the life from you. Your panic and run approach to life will almost certainly have ruined your credit (unless you have a trust fund or a sugar daddy/momma, then by all means, ignore me and live it up).

So, I implore you: keep the steady, boring desk job you have so that you can keep paying the bills that show up like clockwork (regardless of whether you spent all your tips on Jager shots) and keep that magic number (your credit score) in the right range until your Uncle Harry leaves you gobs of cash or you convince some old man to pay your way.

Sincerely,
The perpetual renter

The dreaded scale

Frankly, I dread every visit to my obgyn because she weighs me every time I go. It is not that I am unaware that pregnant women gain weight. I fully expected to gain weight.

The problem is that in every, single pregnancy guide, magazine, forum, poster, etc. it is printed somewhere that pregnant women only need 300 extra calories a day and should gain between 25 and 30 pounds for the entire pregnancy. I sailed right on past 30 pounds weeks ago, and I have at least 6 weeks to go.

If you have ever been pregnant, you can vouch for the fact that you would trample kittens to get to whatever food you are craving regardless of how many calories it may contain. I have had food cravings during this pregnancy that I am absolutely certain must rival a heroin addict's craving for heroin. Some random food will sound appealing and a few moments will go by and appealing turns into "I must have it, and I must have it right now." It becomes an obsession. (Like right now, you may think I am focused on writing this blog, but all I'm really thinking about is guacamole.)

I have not craved a particularly balanced diet, and I have gained an astounding amount of weight. So, I have gotten into the habit of going to the doctor's office, being weighed, picking my jaw up off the floor, leaving and crying all the way to work. At my last appointment, my doc informed me that I officially weighed more than 200 pounds. I could not function for the rest of the day. Last October (right before I broke my ankle), I weighed 140 pounds. I had been prancing around in size 8 jeans. I felt so fabulous that I went blond. Well, I gained some weight before I learned I was pregnant, and then I just kept on gaining, and now my size 8 jeans look like Barbie clothes.

Anyway, today was one of my dreaded appointments. More dreaded even than usual because I was supposed to get back the results of my 3 hour gestational diabetes test, and I was certain I had gestational diabetes because I am enormous (and doc said the more enormous you get, the higher your chances of getting GD). Well, not only do I not have gestational diabetes, but I stepped on that scale, and I had lost 2 pounds.

Oh the difference 2 little 'ole pounds can make! I still weigh more than 200 pounds, and my size 8 jeans still look like Barbie clothes, but damn that was a boost for my self-esteem! So, (because I reward myself with food), to celebrate my 2 pound loss, I intend to waddle next door to Chipotle and devour guacamole!

OMG- Shoes!

I have been wearing these shoes almost every day since I was released to walk after breaking my ankle (that was in December!!!). Before I got huge pregnant, I would try to throw in a low heel every once in a while to break up the monotony. However, I am fairly certain that if I put on a pair of cute heels today one of two things would happen. Either I would a) have "loaves of bread baking" syndrome-where the fat spills over the tops of the shoes and looks like loaves of bread baking, or b) succumb to my new and precarious shift in gravity and topple over sending myself into early labor or cracking open my skull or some other nightmare. So, I wear the ugly shoes.

This morning I noticed that I had buried all my cute shoes under flip flops and flats in my closet (I must have done it subconsciously to keep from having a melt down). One gorgeous shoe peeked out at me through the piles of plain, boring shoes, and it occurred to me that there are so many things I am looking forward to doing after my son is born! I think I'll list some of them for you:

• Obviously, wearing cute shoes
• Seeing the feet the cute shoes are encasing
• Sitting on my patio (or anyone's patio) and drinking a beer
• Shopping at more than one store without wanting to take a nap
• Eating things without having to read the label first or google it later and panic
  
• Taking anything besides Tylenol for a headache (Brooke and I have strong opinions regarding the effectiveness of Tylenol)
• Not timing whether or not I can have something to drink based on my proximity to a bathroom
• Setting fire to every ugly, stretchy, ill-fitting maternity garment I own
• And of course- Seeing my gorgeous, perfect son and dressing him in all the little outfits I tear up over every morning when I go to my closet to retrieve my ugly shoes.
  

Reasons I love my BFF

Christen is my "BFF." There have been times since we have known one another that we have gone years (literally, years) without speaking. Then someone will run into someone or we'll wind up living in the same dorm when we didn't even realize we were attending the same college, and bam! we're right back in the thick of things.

I have not seen Christen since Halloween-ish of last year. She came to Dallas and defiled a Whataburger, and I almost fainted in a haunted house (I made it through one room), so she walked my dry-heaving ass out to my car (even though we had stood in line for approx 2 hours and spent $17 a ticket to get in) and sat with me while everyone else finished what was apparently the greatest haunted house in history.

No matter how long Christen and I go without speaking, we can pick right up where we left off. I walk into her house (regardless of whether she is in the process of tearing up the floors or painting the ceiling), and I feel immediately at home.

Christen knows the ugly, ugly, ugly side of Michelle. She was there with me through some of the most agonizing times of my life. Some of those things were my fault and some of them weren't, but through it all, she didn't judge. She just poured up a margarita (or ordered chicken nachos with the black olives on the side....and I said, "put it on my tab") and listened.

Christen is beautiful, loyal, intelligent, hilarious, creative and the most amazing friend I have ever had. I love you, chick! Wish I could "see you next Tuesday." Maybe some day.....

Operation Beautiful

So, there is a post-it in one of our stalls at work. It says something like "You are beautiful just the way you are" and directs you to go to www.operationbeautiful.com. It has been there for a couple of weeks, and I just got around to going to the website.

The whole site is dedicated to ending "fat talk" and letting women know they are beautiful just as they are. The idea is for women to write anonymous post-its and leave them in public places for other women to find.

Being pregnant and weighing more than I ever have in my life, I find this idea to be one of the best I have ever heard. Sometimes we make ourselves the punchline of our own fat jokes so that no one will beat us to it. We beat ourselves down so much that we begin to believe it.

So, to all my girls, you are beautiful just the way you are. I don't know a single person who I cannot say that to and mean it!

Kickball=Fail. Also, cheeseburgers

As of 3:30 p.m., it is looking very unlikely that Michael and I will be chosen for our favorite kickball team. We failed to jump high enough to clear one of the hoops. Apparently, it is a deal breaker hoop. Michael is still trying to talk at the team captain enough to annoy him into letting us on the team, but I've kinda ambled away to the other side of the playground.

So, the house hunting process continues. I cried on my way back to work (the hoop through which I was attempting to jump required me to leave in the middle of the work day and waste approximately 2 hours of my time). Also, I sent pitiful text messages to a handful of friends to garner some sympathy/empathetic rage.

Then, I decided to drown my sorrows in a cheeseburger, which reminded me that I am also an emotional eater. I don't just reward myself with food, I also console myself with it. That little piece of self-realization went on to make me realize that writing this blog has highlighted my need for therapy.

I think I'll eat a cookie to make myself feel better about that.............

A story about kickball

I am a renter. Not because I enjoy setting fire to my money but because I had an irresponsible youth and am now reaping the rewards of said youth.

So, Michael and I are in the process of trying to locate a house to rent so our son can have a room and our dogs can have a yard (and stop chasing other dogs and small children until they have officially made it impossible for me to make it to work on time).

The "process" is basically like putting in your bid to be picked first for kickball on the playground at recess. You're asking the team captain to review all your past kickball games and overlook the time you went to kick the ball and instead landed on your ass. "I picked myself up and dusted myself off, and I tried again! I made it all the way to first base the next time!" Eventually, you will find a team captain who will tell you that you are in the running, but you must first jump through these 5 hoops.

The agonizing part is the waiting. You put in your application (complete with all the information these strangers need to review everything you've ever done.......including fail) and then you wait endlessly TO BE JUDGED.

Unlike going through a similar process to purchase a home, your reward for all this hoop jumping and being judged is: being granted the keys to the front door that someone else owns so that you may mail them a check every month....until you grow weary of some facet of that person's property and start the process all over again.

So, here's to being picked first for the kickball team the Fox family really wants to play on this year!