ramble on, rambler

Dear Mama,

I owe you an apology. I used to tease you about your B.U.M equipment clothing, because first off- BUM equipment. What's their parent company - Vagina Tools? Ha ha x forever. And, I don't know, it's not a cool brand. Because I'm still 90% 16 years old and I don't want to come into the store with you, I'll just wait in the car and practice being sullen. So, here's why I owe you an apology and why I think you're Wonder Woman for wearing pumps every day to work for 27 years:

Let's start with that used ninja bandaid I saw on the ground of the WalMart change room last Wednesday. That was totally mine. I am Senorita Shitbag for leaving it there, laying on the ground, I know. If someone else had left it, I would have vomited on top of it, then imagined chewing on it like a new flavour of gum (Longer Lasting Blood Burst!), then vomited some more.

To be fair, I had just tried on 70 $15 dollar sweaters in 4 minutes and had just found out why they were $15. Poorly made, poor fitting, weird colours, weird bumps, heavy sweaters with no sleeves-WHY? Seriously, WHO is designing these half clothes? People who hate arms? Yes, it's a step up from the bathrobes that masqueraded as sweaters a few years ago that hid flaws, or not at all ever. [Those were like a grown up version of fat girls tying their sweater around their waist in elementary school. FACT – tying something bulky around something already bulky is not camouflage. If I was an animal in the woods, it would be like wearing an animal skin to avoid being shot. Gross and highly ineffective.] Anyways, when the temperatures dip and you reach in your exploding clothes cave really organized closet for that warm cozy sweater, your arms are going to be PISSED when they get left out for Jack Frost to maul. I just want some effing sleeves is all. 

 So, yes, overloaded arms, sweating (so fun when you're trying things on in a hurry. I end up muttering angrily to myself and becoming a What Not To Wear host in a change room, ripping myself and whatever I dared pull over my head apart. It's really fun. Then add WalMart to the equation. It's like calculus fun.) But then, this WalMart employee soothed my change room fever. I couldn't see her, only hear her – she was on some shitty 'answer every inbound call!' shift and she handled it so kindly and gracefully I wanted to tell her she was awesome. But then I'm that girl, who strikes up conversations with clerks, thinking it will be short and sweet, then ends up in this scenario: too tired to nod anymore as the Save On clerk talks about the price of Hallowe'en candy. For a solid 5 minutes. After I'd paid and zipped up my purse and grabbed the handle of the cart and took a step or two. Five minutes. Tick them off in your head. It's a long time. I could have exaggerated and said 10, but 5 is enough. 

So, I've learned that lesson. But she was a star, and was even super nice as I dumptrucked all the stuff I'd tried on into an already overflowing cart. Save for a sweater. Stripy, soft, not too long and not too thick. But back to the bandaid – only worn in an emergency because I hate the feeling of bandaids – your pulse bulging underneath, tight and awkward. But I was wearing lady shoes and HO LEE SHIT, my feet raged. Sarah Jessica Parker made some cute shoes at one of those ridiculously cheap chains down in the States that's always having a bankruptcy sale. (I think it's called Steve & Barry's, but I like to call it K-Ci & Jo-Jo's) They were dark purple with woven leather straps layering over top and fake wood panelling on the bottom (no one will ever pay me to properly describe shoes.) 

I think within 8 steps at work, my feet were like, ready, steady, sweat! And if I've learned one thing from the 2 war movies I've watched, sweat = trenchfoot. Blisters popped up within seconds, so by the time I had made it through half the day, drove to WalMart to pick up contacts, tried on clothes because they were cheap and I was there and yeah, lost the bandaid and stared at it then walked away, stood in an "express" line for 15 minutes to pay, hobbled to the car, hobbled back in because I left my keys in the Vision Centre, then hobbled back to the car and drove back to work, my feet were bloody zombie stumps, dragging strips of flesh and gristle behind them. I finished the day in bare feet and secretly wished some OH & S nerd would dare say something about workplace safety just so I could box their ears with my death shoes.

I got home by driving barefoot, then walking on top of the shoes instead of in them. Now, do I throw them out? I will NEVER wear them again, and they cost like 6 cents, but I don't know if I can. The next day I went to grab my trusty black flip flops to give my feet a rest, and there was a hole in the bottom of the right one. I nearly started sobbing. I had asked a lot of those flip flops – wedding, Honeymoon, countless summers and they have finally bowed their head and floated up to shoe heaven.

So, Mama, I tried. I can't wear nice shoes, but I can admit I bought a B.U.M equipment sweater and yes, I will be cutting out the tag, but that's because it's scratchy*.



*flat out lie