You Can't Take Me Anywhere

Look how happy I was at the beginning of our vacation.

I'm smiling because I had checked the average temperatures for Southern California, and packed accordingly. I was going to be so comfortable in my black clothing and my socks and my running shoes.

The day after we arrived, the temperatures soared into the 90s. California had entered into a freakish heatwave, completely unexpected and highly unusual for that time of year. I toughed it out for a couple of days, pushing up my sleeves like a casual but sophisticated woman. I rolled up my long pants and hoped people would think they were capris. My ankle socks and running shoes looked a little funny with my stylish "capris," but I kept telling myself that at least my feet were cushioned.

Finally, I could stand it no longer. I was hot and sweaty and my feet felt like they were encased in ovens. I walked into a Ross store, headed straight to the clearance rack, and grabbed a pair of shorts and a fuchsia tank top. I didn't even bother to try them on. Then I ambled over to the shoe section and found some walking sandals on sale. I spent all of $20 on my new outfit. Frugal and fashionable, that's me.

When I returned to the hotel, I tried on the shorts. Perfect fit. My slim, toned legs were blindingly white and not particularly slim or toned, but after perspiring like a pig for the first half of our vacation, my need for comfort outweighed my need to be respected. I wore those shorts the rest of our stay at Disneyland. I went to try on the tank top, and as I shook it out and held it up, I thought to myself, hmmm. That almost looks like a . . .  no . . . wait a minute . . . is that what I think it is? I had grabbed a maternity tank top.

I wish this story ended with me taking that shirt back to the store and exchanging it for something cute and flattering, but I think you know who you're dealing with.

Ahhh. Happy again in my bright pink maternity top.

Dinner last night: barbecue steak, hashbrown casserole

Exactly three years ago:

I'm Nothing if Not Honest. And Scrappy!

Exactly four years ago:

Doors . . . Who Needs 'Em?