Like I said previously, I’m not reading an awful lot these days. I’m trying to wrap up a book chapter that’s due at the end of the month, so my personal reading time is suffering. Fortunately, I caught a small cold—not enough to really knock me out, but enough to justify calling in sick to work for a few hours, and enough to cause me to skip yoga twice the past week. Definitely sick, but not dying: It’s a nice way to get some time off, though it does come at the cost of coughing a lot, and sleeping in really strange intervals, and feeling funny in the head.
Most days I’m pretty well content to live alone. (Alone, unless you count the cats. They’re difficult to ignore. More precisely, the cat fur everywhere is difficult to ignore.) I am a big fan of solitude. But the other night I was wishing I had someone around to nurse me. Seriously: I can’t be expected to kiss my own forehead, can I?
But anyway, I found myself awake yesterday morning—awake, but feeling too funny in the head to trust myself to write anything. Naturally, I jumped upon the chance to read a book. Incognegro was recommended over at Citizen Reader and, since I’m a sucker for graphic novels, I decided to read it—though first I had to make the library buy it. Which I did. I am powerful like that.
(Okay, pretty much anybody can ask the library to buy a book, and usually the library will, so really I’m not anything special. But let’s ignore that.)
Incognegro has a great premise. It takes place during the Jim Crow years, and the star is Zane, an African-American gent who can pass for white. He goes undercover to attend lynchings, and then reports back in a newspaper column. The unsolved murder underpinning the story was kind of weak—veteran fans of mysteries will have no trouble figuring out whodunit—but otherwise it was a very enjoyable read, though you’ll need a strong stomach to bear the many different depictions of violence. This particular book puts the “graphic” in graphic novel.
In other news, none of my clothes fit.
Do note carefully that I am not, per se, complaining. I am not foolish enough to kvetch about having lost thirteen pounds. The gods of fate know that there’s a real easy way to make those clothes fit again. I think I’d rather blow fifty bucks at the thrift store on new purchases than gain the weight back, thanks for asking.
But then there’s the matter of my bras. Long-term fans of this blog (Hi, Mom!) know about my ordeal with bra sizes. As a 36F, the only way to get a bra that fits is to go online and fork over $86. Since determining my correct size (and remember, I was twenty-six years old before I finally figured out the proper measurement), I have slowly accumulated four bras.
I now own $344 worth of bra that doesn’t fit.
Went to put the bra on the other day, realized I needed to notch it tighter, and… and there were no more notches. And also the cups were feeling roomy. Very roomy.
Did some fancy tricks with the tape measure this morning. I’m now at a 32DD or 32DDD, depending on how you interpret the chart.
On the bright side, I can’t rush out and spend a ton of money on new bras. I have neither A) a ton of money nor B) anyplace nearby to buy bras. This is a good thing, and do you see why? I may well continue to lose weight. I don’t want to spend money on weird-sized bras till I’m done shrinking.
I’m going to a wedding in a foreign country next month, you may recall. (Thirty-two days from now, actually.) The bride has already offered to take me bra shopping. That should ameliorate things. Nevermind that I have not actually met the bride. The point here is that destination city has a store where women of unusual proportions may purchase bras that fit.
In the meantime, I shall content myself with buying clothes that are guaranteed not to fall down. Made the mistake of going to work the other day in a skirt that was just itching to create a scene of hilarious situational comedy. I do not need that sort of hilarity in my life. It’s time for a serious raid on the thrift stores.