Before I start writing about my thoughts tonight, here is a photo I took yesterday under the clouds later in the evening. This bird perched at the highest point of the tallest tree a few doors away from me, with a companion below out of my focus. I hiked up the hill with the camera ready but the lighting produced only a silhouette. I thought the ID might be easy with the pointed beak and round body with short tail. The size of this bird was a bit smaller than a hawk but larger than a crow when observing the wing span during take-off. It perched for at least an hour there and did the same thing tonight. Help?
Now I will get on with my post.
The tossed salad I took to work for lunch today didn’t excite me much. It was elaborate but not good enough. Although I was hungry enough to devour the whole salad, I picked at it and wished I had brought more of my home-made dressing which isn’t bad considering it’s mostly made with red wine vinegar, garlic, canola oil, and a pinch of Splenda. Two months ago, just before Thanksgiving, Gina and I went to our first Weight Watcher’s meeting. For four weeks, we weighed in religiously. Since then we fell off the wagon but not in a big way. I’m still holding on to the edge of that wagon with my fingertips and saying no to most of the things I like to eat. Or, at least, I’m pleasing myself with two pretzels instead of thirty, one Hershey’s dark instead of ten, one little slice of cheese instead of a block, and the lists goes on. Both of us want to go back soon but only when we are ready to give it 100%. We’re getting there. Who wants to go get weighed in, lay $12.00 on the counter before you find out that you lost .5 lbs.? Or gained 3? Not ME! Add the cost of attending the meeting, lunch afterwards, and a pair of new shoes for the daughter. We had better be wholeheartedly serious about it! I almost weighed myself after I stepped out of the shower this morning but made a quick decision. No, my hair is wet. That’s added weight. Maybe tomorrow.
The thought of swimsuits is weighing heavily on my mind - the dreaded and feared “trying one on” under those fluorescent lights in the dressing room where every dimple and roll I have is magnified, not to mention the blinding white color of my skin - it all scares me. Ecckk. It’s like a horror movie. I wonder if security cameras in dressing rooms are real and what kind of person might be watching with a sadistic smirk on his/her face?
My neighbor, Maureen, loves to go to the pool in our community. I baked at the poolside and beach for twelve years in a row and don’t care for the sun anymore. She’s invited me to go with her many times but I always made an excuse to back out so I wouldn’t need to put a swimsuit on. Stand me next to Maureen and you’ll see why. I’m short all over with a chubby upper body and skinny legs. Maureen is five years younger than me, eight inches taller than me, and has legs like Stacy Keibler of Dancing with the Stars fame. She’s a former dancer and she wears short-shorts to show off those tan, long legs! Not baggy, elastic-wasted ones like mine that drape half-way down my thighs. Hey, if I had legs like hers, I’d wear them, too. I really want to wear a swimsuit this summer and continue using my self-tanning cream from a tube or bottle. I really do. That’s why tonight, not one pretzel will touch my lips. I want to sit next to Maureen at the pool this summer without wrapping myself in an oversized towel.
I’m sitting here at the keyboard and listening to Taylor Hicks’ new CD. Hmmm…and daydreaming…
His band is playing at our pool cabana. He’s singing “The Deal”. The saxophone is sooo sexy. I’m sitting next to Maureen wearing my new hot swimsuit and slurping Bourbon slushes while admiring my new pedicure. In the early evening, there’s a warm breeze slightly moving my blonde wisps. It’s real hot so I get up from my chair and sashay to the pool, in the rhythm with his music, then sashay back after being very careful not to get my hair wet. I can’t keep my eyes off him while he sings to the toe-tapping crowd. Will I at least make eye contact with him?
Maureen: “Mary, he’s looking over here. He’s pointing to you!”
Me: “Oh stop, he is not. He’s pointing to you! He wants your legs, Maureen.”
Maureen: “Get up girl, go over there and dance with him! Go, Go, Go!”
My little daydream reminds me of the movie, Griswold’s Las Vegas Vacation when Wayne Newton, singing “Loving You” by Minnie Riperton, put a spell on Ellen, Clark’s wife. Out of her mind with pleasure, she stands against Wayne on stage and belts out the highest soprano note in the song, beautifully. (I can’t stand Wayne Newton.)
When you are a pre-teen or teenager, it’s normal to fantasize about your heartthrobs, i.e. Davy Jones, Paul McCartney, Ringo Starr, or Elvis. Should forty years make a difference? Huh? Heck, no! Maybe I should rename my blog: Marys-SillyView.blogspot.com. I really amuse myself sometimes :)