Well, as I've said before and will say again, relationship angst sucks.
But on the bright side--and I will find a silver lining if I have to goddamn well sew one out of tinsel and dental floss!--it is one HELL of a diet plan. I've dropped twenty pounds since shit met fan back in December. Everybody who sees me for the first time in a month or two utters some variation on "Holy crap, have you lost weight?!"*
And I'm eating, too. Not skipping meals, nothin' like that. Heck, thanks to the frozen food aisle at Trader Joe's, I'm actually eating quite well, I am self-medicating with chocolate, and furthermore, on at least two separate occasions, I have had ice cream for breakfast.** So I'm not sure WHY I'm losing weight at such a rate, but I'm not complaining.
A buddy of mine in similar straits thinks that unrelenting emotional stress of this variety may fire up your metabolism. There's probably something to be said for that, because common wisdom has it that women getting divorced always lose weight, and you can't tell me we're not doing chocolate therapy like crazy.
All of which is only tangential to the point that my bras haven't been fitting any more. Adjusting the straps only went so far. Finally I was down to one that had straps so folded and doubled back it looked like I'd somehow invented the Klein brassiere, and I knew it was time to go bra shopping.
So I slogged glumly into Victoria's Secret, expecting nothing much. Despite the models all being triple-F and whatnot, they do not carry much in the DD and up range, particularly not if you've got a ribcage wider than a pencil. They apparently do not believe humans come in these sizes. Occasionally the staff is foolish enough to make a comment like this to our faces, and this makes us humans who are that size wish to pick them up by their scrawny little teenybopper A-cup necks and shake vigorously.
And whaddya know? I'm down a cup size. I am D, gloriously D, and finally out of the double letters! I can shop at Victoria's Secret again! I can buy bras in colors other than white and beige! I can find something wireless!***
I was getting ready to sing hosannas at this news, when the woman at VS frowned down at her tape and said "Actually, y'know...you're not even all that far off from a C..."
Good lord. No wonder my back hasn't been bothering me lately. My jaw dropped.
Of course, I could wish the belly fat went before the boobs, but I'll take what I can get, man.
*This is immensely gratifying. Were I the enlightened feminist I really ought to be, my body image shouldn't be tied in any way to my self-worth, but c'mon.
**I am single. Ish. If you can't take advantage of that state to occasionally have ice cream for breakfast, then what GOOD is it?
***Hate, hate, hate underwires. Have never found an underwire that didn't make me feel like my boobs were being put through the Inquisition for some obscure mammarian heresy.
Ya know, despite the fact that I always always say "There is no predicting anything,"--despite the fact that I SAID that to a bunch of college students, several times, last weekend--still, it manages to surprise me.
I did not see the interest in the sloth coming. I never thought I'd get so many inquiries that I had to send it to auction. You people delight me to no end.