you have a hospital waiting room uniform, and it isn’t the cute capris with the matchy-matchy sandals. Mine consists of a sweatshirt, jeans, and socks with my tennis shoes. It’s lovely only to me, trust me, but it serves me well. I am notoriously cold natured, so I have frozen myself once too many times waiting in over-air conditioned buildings. When seconds go by normally, but minutes and hours drag by, my trusty sweatshirt has become my friend. I know it’s July. I know I look like January. I don’t care much anymore–except as I write this and look around the waiting room and look like the only squirrel that stocked up for winter–complete with snack and my own extra large coffee cup–I’m not saving styrofoam in a noble green movement. I am just after an extra jolt of caffeine as I wait and try not to nod off.
Today, my friend who has been through so much lately, is back again, hopefully to fix this persistent little problem that has caused her to lose 40 pounds. We could be jealous of the way the weight has fallen off, but it doesn’t take long to see it isn’t one bit fun, when you can’t enjoy a nice meal and you’re down to yogurt and applesauce as your mainstays. I am most hopeful that this will solve the problem, and she can get back into life and deal with that pesky extra ten pounds like the rest of us our age.
Meanwhile, I sit and smugly look around at all the women whose arms are crossed, legs tucked under them, and know I made the right choice. Cute is for later. It’s a little scary, though because comfort is sounding better and better. The next time I write about cute versus comfort, it may be in my SAS shoes and sweater I just finished knitting with a little lap blanket.