I keep telling you, Hope Is NOT A Strategy

We had a manager several years back, affectionately known as "Brinkley," that was quoted as saying, "Hope is not a strategy."  It has always stuck with me.  If you think about it, it's true.  You can't rely on hope alone to accomplish a goal.  I suppose it is not a bad idea to have some hope to guide you through your journey, but you gotta have a plan, you know?  You need to have a plan, you need to have measurable goals, you need to have the ability to make alterations to your plan if things are not going well.  You must remain diligent and you must remain focused.  You must be willing to kick someones ass and take hostages if it isn't going well.  Nowhere in that scenario is "hope" called for. 

I, personally, have never really relied on hope, unless we are relating it to things like, "I hope Santa brings me a show saddle for Christmas."  It is noteworthy to mention that never happened. I would also relate it to situations like, "I hope I don't catch a cold."  But, I usually did.  And in cases like, "I hope I win the lottery!"  You don't see me sitting in some luxury accommodations having someone else workout my thighs for me, do you?  So, you see, "hope" has never really panned out for me.

Today, during Therapy Thursday, I was telling the Rug Doctor that I am starting to stress out because we are getting down to the wire on my Little Black Dress deadline, or, as my Dad used to say, "it's nut cuttin' time."  I promised myself at the beginning of the year that I would make my goals a reality and that I would pledge to myself and all my readership that I would wear a LBD in December of 2014, no matter where I was in my journey.  I cried to the Rug Doctor, "What was I thinking?  It's like I didn't even think that through?  It's like I had hope! What was wrong with me?  It was such a careless thing to do!"  It's true.  I let that little mother trucking word in..."hope."  Brinkley was right.  Hope isn't a strategy.  Hope isn't doing anything for me.  What would be doing more for me is if the scum-sucking saboteurs would get the huge mother-fucking plastic orange pumpkin full of Halloween candy away from my desk.  That would be one strategy that might help.  Another thing would be if I could strike some sort of deal with my body to stop being old and broken and to start being functional.  This seems to be the biggest hurdle.  Actually, that's a lie.  The herd of disfunctional ponies in my head are probably in the running for the number one problem.  Unruly band of rogue ponies. It's like half of them are untrainable and the other half should be made into glue.  Ass Kicker has pretty much put me out to pasture.  "Yeah, you should just work on cardio and stretching."  I used to be an athlete in the making, now I'm just one of those random people sweating on the elliptical.  I'm trying not to be depressed about that.

 Anyway, I digressed...a lot.  So, the Rug Doctor says, "Well, hope might not be a strategy, but it is reasonable to think that hope plays a role in your journey...blah blah blah...and it's only September... you still have time."  I stopped her.  "LOOK, it isn't like this is Extreme Home Makeover and that Ty Pennington guy is going to come make me over in five days and then yell "move that bus!" and then I am going to cry because I am going to have a new body that I am going to end up putting a second mortgage on because I can't afford the power bill on and end up losing it and now my disabled kid is out on the street again.  That isn't going to happen, this takes time!!!  I'm down to TWO options, juicing diet or anorexia.  Get on board with one or the other, because that is ALL THAT IS LEFT!!!"  The good news is, this isn't the Rug Doctor's first rodeo.  She's seen this hysteria before.  She remains calm.  She then tells a story about another patient that has parallel metaphors to my situation.  Something about it takes two hours to get from point A to point B if everything goes perfect, and yeah there is a lot of traffic and this and that and the other, but the point is, she finally got to point B even though it took longer than two hours and all the stressing and worrying didn't change the fact that she did get to point B and it was okay and it worked out.  I just looked at her and said, "What if the bridge goes out, then what?"  She thinks she's winning this one today, she isn't.  Not even hope can help her at this point.

So, this is where I'm at folks.  I foolishly had hope, and threw out a foolish challenge at the beginning of the year. Now, I'm in a bind.  It's looking a little less like Little Black Dress and a little more like Big Black Dress.  As the Rug Doctor would say, it looks like I ran into some traffic along the way on my journey...and some construction...possibly an accident...a natural disaster...road block....a detour....ran out of gas...car was impounded...stuck in a foreign country...Obama isn't coming for me...so, here I sit.  It's gonna take a little longer than I thought....or...had hoped.

This is why hope is not a strategy.

I do NOT have the runs

Weird day today.  Today was one of those days that just had a weird feel to it.  I don't know if it is the full moon or what.  The day started innocently enough, just normal.  You know, no major wardrobe issues (even though the upstairs closet is a wreck), no major drama on the way in. Upon arriving, I walked in with Chatty Wilson, we lamented about the weather, the company, where we were going to die and if we died at our desks, how long we'd rot there, etc.   I got to my desk, got a few things done, Valerina showed up for the morning check-in, I chewed out Moglie for everyone that has ever stolen my Clorox wipes, he was unaffected, you know, normal stuff.

It was about noon-ish when things started to fall apart.  I realized I needed to get the mail done, but that I also had a staff meeting during the time I needed to do the mail.  I guess that means I don't get a lunch hour.  And then I stopped.  This is stupid.  The mail is a recent added responsibility.  It isn't my job, really, it is a responsibility, but I had a full time job before I got this responsibility.  So, you know what?  The building will get their effing mail when I effing get to it.  I eat my lunch quickly, go down to our new meeting room, set it up, come back up, get ready to go to the meeting and then the phone rings. It's Butthead the security guard. It appears someone is at the loading dock with computers.  This falls into the category of NOT MY FUCKING PROBLEM.  I'm beyond irritated.  This is not my scope of responsibility, but because Butthead has dumped it on me, what am I to do?  Just then, as if by magic, the new building dude appears at my desk, "How's it going?"  I said, "I'm glad you asked...." and proceeded to rail on him about Butthead, the delivery at the loading dock and how I'm late for a meeting.  New Building Dude and I go down to the loading dock and get this handled.  I go to the meeting, take notes, feel like stabbing my eyes out...normal stuff.

I head back up to my desk and pass one of my co-workers in the hallway whose eyes are big as saucers telling me about a crazy lady by the bathroom.  I don't see a crazy lady by the bathroom.  Maybe she is the crazy lady by the bathroom.  Hey, that reminds me, I have to pee. I go in, pee and go to pull my nylons back up.  That is when I heard the sound no woman wants to hear.  I just ripped a huge, mother trucking hole in my nylons.  Fuck, Fuck, Fuckity Fuck.  I manage to get them to a position that will still allow me to put myself back together and walk.  Hopefully I can make it to my desk where I have some hairspray. Maybe that will hold this situation at bay.  I do the crippled girl shuffle back to my desk.  No one is around, so I pull up my skirt just enough to spray the hell out of my nylons.  The rip is on the inner upper thigh, so now, I have successfully managed to glue my legs together.  Thank God I wear underwear, otherwise, I may have required a stylist down there.  Anyway, I walk over to Valerina to tell her my plight.  One of her male teammates overhears me and says, "don't you have an extra pair at your desk? Or some nail polish?"  Well, thank you, Macgyver, no I don't.

Feeling sticky, and frankly, chaffing like a mo-fo, I head out to get the mail.  I have to walk all the way out to the end of the parking lot.  It's a lonely walk, but it's okay.  As I'm starting back with the mail in hand, a large white van drives next to me and slows way down.  I mean WAY down and is crawling next to me.  It doesn't have any windows.  Shit. Wild Bill has come for me. I'm going to be in a hole rubbing lotion on my skin within the hour and I will be a woman suit within the week.  I pick up the pace and the van parks.  I hope whoever it is isn't waiting for me when I come out later.  I feel like prey that has been located and I will be hunted and then trapped when I am prime for the taking.  I mean, I could be totally kidnapped and who would know?  When would they notice I was missing?  Would they look for me?  Where would they start?  I don't think they would.  If I'm not there to ask, "Where's Cassondra?"  Who are they going to ask?

None the less, I make it back in safely.  Dish Guy comes over and is asking me how it's going.  I'm going over how I have a run in my nylons.  He says, "What did you say?  You have the runs?"  Then, I hear Angry Stallion over the wall, "What? Cassondra has the runs?"  Then an aisle over from him I hear Nick The Bouncer say, "Cassondra has the runs!?"  I'm yelling, "No, no, no, my NYLONS have a RUN!"  Angry Stallion says, "I'd better put that in the center chat and notify everyone to stay clear."  These are my people.  The people I am surrounded with.

Pretty soon, Pinterest Food Porn comes over and starts talking to me.  We start talking about her daughter's hair.  One thing leads to another and we are talking about little kids and lice.  I hear over the wall, "I didn't hear that whole conversation, but wow, Cassondra is having a tough day, first she has the runs an now she has lice!"  Seriously.  What is going on?  I share the drama with Valerina and she says, "Well, at least you're entertained."  I suppose so.  I mean, I do sound like a fun gal, shitting my pants and pulling bugs out of my hair.  That's fun.  It's at that moment, Cross Fit Crazy comes out trying to give away pizza.  He orders a large pizza, eats two slices and then gives the rest away.  Call me crazy, but maybe a small or personal size pizza would have been the way to go?  What do I know?

By this time, the hole in my nylons had grown and I am pretty sure I heard some ripping going on the last time I adjusted in the chair.  And to be clear, when I say "ripping" I am referring to fabric separating, not passing gas.  It's time to go home.  I walk out, all pride lost.  My skirt is riding up on one side, my bra has shifted and I have 3 runs in my nylons heading down my leg.  It's been a tough day at the ol factory.

I think tomorrow I'm gonna wear jeans or something.  I feel like I've earned it.  And, I don't need Wild Bill dreaming about all the skin on my legs.  I'd better wear the boots to be safe.

One step closer to being a tramp

I wasn't going to blog about today, but Shark Bait said I should.  He felt like I owed it to my library of blogs about my journey to add today's event to the collection. I haven't really felt like blogging about "the journey" lately as it is a bit stagnant and I am re-kindling the fire to achieve my Little Black Dress goal in December.  I'm just doing what I need to do (most days) with minor set backs here and there, but just moving forward and trying not to dwell on the past or what is holding me back.  Trying to focus on what will move me forward.  This is just daily life.  Not really blog material.  I mean, I'm sure some of you are frankly sick of hearing about it.  But, I did have what we call on the support group forum page a "non scale victory" (aka an NSV), so I will share.

Today I went to get some new shoes.  Summer is just about over and it's time to think about shoes for Fall.  I went to a place I found a couple years ago that specializes in wide width shoes.  I have always struggled with fit because my feet are so wide and I have bad knees.  The shoes are a little spendy, but they are excellent quality and last a long time.  And, most importantly, they fit.  That's kind of a big deal after years of collecting pair after pair of shoes that seemed to fit at the store and then hurt my feet or affected my knees after a few wears.  I would add tape, or padding or moleskin or something to make them work.  It was ridiculous. Anyway, this store has saved me since I found it.  Today I was in there looking for some sensible, but cute shoes for Fall weather.  I found a few that seemed to fit the bill, and were actually a half size smaller than my last visit to the store, which I thought was pretty cool.  And then, I saw off in the corner with a sales sticker on it, a pair of tall, leather, black boots.  I've dreamed of wearing such a pair of boots for a long time, but I have never been able to wear them because my calves are just simply too wide.  Last year I got brave and found a pair of tall, cheaply made boots at the great American fat girl store, Lane Bryant.  I bought them and tried to wear them, but they didn't fit right around the leg and the cheap material of the boots just slid down into a puddle around my ankles.  The boot dream died and I gave them away.  But, today, my eyes lit up, just a little.  I wondered what it would be like to put those boots on.  I wondered if they would fit.  If they didn't, I would be sad.  I mean, I was at a wide shoe store and those boots were made for someone with a larger calf size, so, theoretically, they might fit.  I picked up the boots and stared at them.  I petted them.  I smelled them.  I looked at the price and a little piece of me died inside. Holy shit they were expensive, but I had to know, would they fit?

Before I go on, I need you to understand something.  I have always said, if I ever get skinny, I'm going to dress like the tramp I am deep inside.  I want to wear a mini-skirt and tall boots. Not the "throw me down and fuck me" kind of boots with high heels, although....no, no, just the regular stylish ones.  I want my boobs pushed up to here.  I want to walk around like I'm always walking into a wind machine and that guys are always looking at my ass as I pass by.  I know, it's so primal and shallow, but when you have spent your life trying to cover your body in shame and watching all these other girls/women get all the attention in the world and get to wear anything they want, you crave that.  Okay, so maybe you don't, but I DO.  Now, as I have lost some weight, I see what is going on with my thighs and it isn't pretty.  Likely, I do not have a mini-skirt in my future.  But maybe, just maybe, I have boots in my future.  I don't have the legs for them, but I want to feel like I can wear them if I want to.  Victoria Secret helped me get my boobs up to here, now I want to wear leather all the way from toe to knee.

As I stood there, having my boot fantasy, I put them back on the shelf and walked away.  I tried some more shoes on.  But there they were, just staring at me.  I asked the sales associate, "can you see if you have those in my size?"  She brought me two boxes out and set them in front of me. I stared at them and opened the box. I pulled one out and unzipped it.  I was excited and scared.  The store was full of people. What if they didn't fit around my legs, how embarrassing.  As if sensing my inter turmoil, a larger, older lady with a walker and very swollen legs sitting across the way from me said, "I couldn't wear boots until I was 52 years old, my feet were always too big."  I nodded in understanding and smiled at her.  It was now or never. I pulled my jeans all the way up to my knees. I slipped the boot on my foot and pulled the top up.  I pulled the zipper and prayed.  They easily zipped all the way to the top.  The sales clerk squealed with delight, "Oh, they fit!! Nice!"  I put the other one on and walked over to Shark Bait, who was deep into reading something on his Kindle over in the corner.  I said, "so what do you think?"  He looked up, kind of like he was being the dutiful husband and was already prepared to say, "yes, baby, those are nice..." and then he saw what I was wearing and his face lit up and he said, "Hey, those look really good!"  It was the response I needed to hear and see, but I immediately went into insecure mode, "Do you think they make my legs look bigger?  Do you think I can pull them off?  Do they look baggy around the ankle?  What if I wear them with a skirt, don't you think my legs will look bigger?"  He said, very firmly, "No, they look really good.  They do not make your legs look big. I really like them."  I walked around and looked in the shoe mirror on the floor.  My heart wanted them. My heart needed them and the tramp down inside was screaming "I don't care how much they cost, I want them!!"  I turned to Shark Bait again and he smiled, "You're going to get them, aren't you?"  Like he would ever even try to deny me anything I wanted.  I smiled and said, "I have to."  Shark Bait understood.  And, if I dress like a slut, it's a win-win for him, really.

I left the store with the boots and my new shoes and as we walked to the truck Shark Bait says, "So how much did that cost?"  Not like he cared, but he wanted to flip me crap about it anyway.  Those boots were paid for by every pound I have lost.  Those boots were paid for by every tear I cried because I couldn't have what everyone else had.  Those boots were paid for with my hope for the future.  I think they were priced right.  And, they were, in fact, 25% off the regular price.

When I came home tonight, Shark Bait said, I think you need to blog about this.  I said, "no, this isn't blog-worthy, this isn't a victory.  These boots are made for larger calves, this isn't like I bought "normal people" boots.  I haven't progressed.  This isn't worth a blog."  Shark Bait insisted it was.  After all, I could not fit into the boots before and he could tell how much this meant to me.  So, maybe it is. So, I blogged.  So, this is today's story.  This is my NSV.

Boot Love.  One step closer to dressing like a tramp!