I feel the need

I feel the need

Friday, March 7, 2014

The road to (my) low self esteem is paved with good intentions...and fat pants.

Good morning!

The fact that I work seven minutes from my parents' house has, in the last few years, been a source of mild annoyance and awkward hilarity for me.  My mother finds the oddest reasons to drop in to my place of business and, in the course of a conversation, will forget that we're in my place of business.  She has no problem discussing, out loud, in my office, in front of NBM with his bat-like hearing about her various issues, including gas and bowel movements.  She's brought up tender topics like my own approaching menopause and always, always, always this new health thing or that to battle my life long war against my weight.

I've always blushed easily, so to say these visits leave me red faced is really not a big deal.  Still, hey, I bet no one else has their parents drop in at their work and talk about hemeroids.  Right?

Well, this week I believe my parents hit an all time high water mark for uncomfortable visits to my office.  And honestly, I'm sure they meant it in the best possible light...but given the fact that my mother has always been a size 4-6 where I've been shopping on the plus side of the aisle for more than fifteen years, this was a stinger.
You're the only one
big enough for these pants...and no more
wire hangers.

See, here's what went down:

My grandmother lives in a very nice old people's home where they play bingo and win little prizes.  I'm not sure what grand prize bingo tourney g-ma won, but the prize was a plus size pair of women's sweat pants...in turquoise.  

My grandmother used to be a sturdy woman.  I take after her and my aunt that way.  Old age  (She's 97) has taken its toll and she's shrunk a bit as old women will.  She's no longer that sturdy of a woman.  "She still thinks she's this big," says my mother, "but she's much smaller."

At this point, my mother is holding the sweat pants up...while standing in my office...and I know all too well just where this is going.  But I'm a good daughter.  I have to wait for the boom.

"So I tried them on, and they are way too large for me."  She says, a smile on her face.

At this point my face is so hot I can feel the make up sliding down my neck.

"So I figured they'd fit you just fine.  You know, for when you're writing."

She hands me that rolled up wad of soft material and I take it.

"See, hold it up...look, they'll be just fine on you."

Did I mention NGTJ and PM are both witnessing this?  Thank heavens NBM, who is a health nut and will, on ocassion, express enthusiasm when NGTJ and I talk about diet and exercise.  (He's nothing like my old Evil Bossman, though, so I give him points for that.)  

Yes, my coworkers are witnessing my mother and father standing there, handing me these massive sweat pants, and talking about how all the females in my family tried them on and decided I alone was large enough to wear them.

Earlier in the day PM, who had a fairly lousy week, expressed the desire to shoot himself.  When parents left (but NOT until after they then launched into all the gory details of my father's upcoming cataract surgery...the perfect diet plan.  Have a parent give details of an upcoming procedure.  You'll never want to eat again.)  I asked him if he did, indeed have a firearm with him, because I, too, wanted to shoot myself.

Peaches' boyfriend, a very sweet boy who is funny and awkward and fits in around here pretty well, heard this story and made me feel a bit better:  "I'm sure she meant it in a nice way, though, right?"

She probably did.  

And, curse it all, they are comfortable pants.

Yes, I'm wearing them right now.

Shoot me.

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