on the plus side

For those of you who have seen me in the last 10 years or so, you know that I am a plus sized gal.  I'm also someone who is interested in looking nice and put-together on a regular basis.  Shopping for clothing in sizes that work for me suggests to me that I were to make a Venn Diagram, I am in the small minority of the overlap between "Plus Sized Women" and "Women Who Want to Look Good."  On the other hand, real life experience, and talking with ones peers suggests that the overlap isn't really that small.  That there are plenty of women out there who want to look good and require plus-sized clothing.

In fact, I was listening to a report on NPR yesterday that reported that 50% of American women wear a size 12 or larger.  And that by American standards, a size 14 and up is considered "plus sized."  This report also went on to say that major "high end" fashion designers (Tommy Hilfiger, Oscar de la Renta, and there appear to be talks between British Grammy winner Adele and Burberry) are starting to tap into this pretty big (no pun), untouched market.  Some brands, readily seen in your local shopping mall have already fallen into this emerging trend.  Stores like Forever21, and H&M already offer a plus-sized section.

So what is my complaint, if the trend is that these places are beginning to see our plight? Here it is:  I want to wear the same clothes as every one else.  I want to be able to walk into any clothing store and find my size among the "regular" sizes.  I don't want a different fabric, I don't want a different print, I don't want a different line all my own.  I want to be treated as an equal to my Skinny Sisters.

This is one of the chief reasons that the majority of my clothing comes from either Old Navy or The Gap Outlet.  Both of these stores regularly sold clothing, and pants in particular, size 14 and up a few sizes.  Their tops were also sold up to a size XXL. I could waltz in, shop among The Skinnies, look at the same clothing as my friends, dig to the bottom of the pile to find my size, and walk out with the exact same outfit.  Somewhere in the past year I would guess, both of these places have been skimming off the top end of their size range.  You can no longer buy what was their "biggest size" in a store.  Yes, you can still order them online, but that's not the point.  The point is, I want to be equal.

Old Navy does have an online plus-sized option -- but I have yet to see a store carry these items, save for the ones that were being returned.  The Limited brand has just released a new brand of clothing just for plus-sized women, but only online.  AND, for both of these brands, their plus-sized lines are totally different than their regular lines.

Remember back when our moms were having babies, and what their maternity wear looked like?  You could get a pair of pants, and then a shirt in a tent-like cut.  Nothing was flattering, nothing was form fitting, nothing looked like anything that anyone would ever want to wear.  Fast-forward a generation, and now my peers are wearing cute clothing that is akin to their non-pregnant counterparts.  Cute, stylish jeans, fitted tops, sweaters and jackets on-trend, and form flattering dresses.

This is what the plus-sized market wants and needs.  We don't want horrendous prints and blousey cuts and fabric that wouldn't know a natural fiber if it hit it in the face.    We want to look the same.  We want to be equal.

When I saw that "my sizes" were gone from my stand-by stores, I was really upset.  I thought maybe it was just an oversight, and that they were waiting for a new shipment.  So I sheepishly and quietly asked a sales associate if they had such-and-such pants in the back in a size xyz.  No, she said, they stopped carrying sizes "that big."  Ouch.

I shrugged the discontinuation of the sizes off and chalked it up to a declining demand for such sizes.  But after listening to that NPR report, looking around at my peers, and realizing that there are so many of us women who are either considered plus-sized or near so, why in the world would a company want to stop selling in store those sizes.  To me, it sounds like they should start stocking more.

a thank-you, and a confession

During one's Education education, one is asked countless times to think back to The Teacher who made you want to become a teacher.  And while you might think fondly of many of your teachers, there is usually only one, perhaps two, of your former teachers who really influenced you enough to make you want to be a teacher.  While I didn't realize it at the time, The Teacher who influenced me the most was my 12th grade English teacher.

Prior to this teacher, all of my English teachers had been dinosaurs.  While there is nothing wrong with teachers on the brink of retirement (in fact, I have had the pleasure of working beside two such ladies who were still creating original and engaging lessons up to their final days), there are some who lose their spark and run on auto-pilot for the remainder of their teaching days. Compared to my previous teachers, this one was a baby.  She must have been fresh out of college and was brimming with new and innovative ideas.  She made Shakespeare come alive, literally, by forcing us to act out scenes (I clearly remember being Ophelia and doing my best to sing her song, which seemed like nonsense to me).

While the thought of being an English teacher wasn't even entertained in my mind as I sat in her class (I was so ready to get out of high school that I couldn't even begin to imagine spending more time in that institution than I needed to), she is who I came back to, time and time again, in my undergrad education classes.

This teacher no longer teaches in the district I grew up in, but she does still live in the area.  Occasionally I will see her at the grocery store or at Target, but never have I approached her.  Until the other day.

I was in the grocery store checking out, and The Teacher began emptying the contents of her cart in the lane next to me.  I knew it was her, I've seen her there before, but I always lacked the guts to tell her that she was one of the reasons why I'm doing what I do today.

I paid for my parcels, loaded my groceries into my car, and walked the cart back into the store when suddenly she was in front of me.  Before I knew what I was doing, I blurted out "Did you use to teach at Bay? Are you The Teacher? You don't remember me, but I'm KJ, and I had you for 12th grade English.  I just wanted you to know that I'm a high school English teacher, and you're part of the reason why."  Yes, I verbally accosted my former English teacher in the grocery store parking lot.  I guess I was over taken with the thought of how much it would mean to me if one of my students came back to me, more than 10 years later, and told me that I helped to influence them in some way.  So I told her.

And while she claims to remember me, I'm not sure that she did.  I wasn't a particularly good student.  I was passable, but I didn't try as hard as I should have.  In fact, I almost always think about how I wish I could go back and be the student that I wish I was -- pay attention, be active in class, that sort of thing.  I wasn't a trouble maker, I just wasn't memorable.

We chatted for a while in the grocery parking lot.  She asked what I was teaching, where I lived, that sort of thing.  She told me she stopped teaching in the district two years after I graduated -- she never came back from her maternity leave.  She now teaches drama at a local private school, and even knows the drama teacher at my current school, with whom I am good friends.

I always imagined myself telling The Teacher how she had influenced me, which I did.  What I didn't expect was my confession to her.

Twelfth grade English was World Lit., and following our reading Brave New World, we were to to write an analysis of the hero journey of the main character (John? was that his name?).  I was suffering from a tremendous case of Senioritis had had successfully procrastinated myself into an issue.  Knowing that I wasn't going to have my paper done in time, I created an elaborate excuse to gain myself more time.

During my lunch period, I shuffled into the bathroom with a bag of goldfish crackers.  I chewed some up, mixed them in my hand with a little water, and then smeared my paper with the mixture, all in hopes of giving the appearance of vomit.  I took an incomplete copy of my paper to The Teacher and told her that I had gotten ill on my final paper and asked if I could have until the next day to turn the paper in.  I told her that I would be able to print a new copy of the paper out that night and turn it in first thing in the morning.  Knowing full well that she would not want to examine the paper to see if it was actually complete, I succeeded in buying myself more time to complete the paper I couldn't have been bothered to write in a timely manor.

So in the parking lot of the grocery store, I told her of the goldfish paper, and she laughed.  Because she had remembered the vomit paper.  She told me it was probably the most elaborate scheme any one has devised to get out of turning a paper in on time.

I hope one day I will encounter such a student of my own.  

the finish line

For those of you keeping track at home, we are two weeks away from my 30th birthday.  And, if you recall from my last update, I set a goal to run a 5k before that milestone day.  I'm happy to report that I did it!  I finished a 5k!

While the majority of my training was enjoyable (well, as enjoyable as running for a non-runner can be), I hit a plateau.  Sometime in early May I just felt like I couldn't run any longer or faster than I already was.  I was getting frustrated, and I was feeling really overwhelmed by the task that I set at hand.

Thinking back to the real impetus behind this goal, I remembered that what I was really setting out to prove wasn't that I could run 3.1 miles. But rather, that I could set a goal and actually follow through on it.  The side affect, as I saw it, was the actual running of 3.1 miles.

As Memorial Day inched its way closer to us, and I wasn't feeling any better about my running, I decided, on a particularly awful running day, that I was going to just rip the band-aid off, so to speak, and run the damned 5k.

Was I read?  Absolutely not.  I was still a week away from officially finishing the Couch to 5k program, but I knew that if I didn't just do it, I never would.  So I walked into work the Thursday before Memorial Day and pronounced to my classroom-mate and running partner Angie that I was going to run a 5k on Saturday, and that she was going to join me.

Angie and I had never run together, but we were both completing the same program.  She had planned to run her first 5k in the middle of June, but I some how persuaded her to bite the bullet and run with me in a mere two days.

I didn't want to tell anyone in my family (and even hesitated asking Angie to join me) because I felt like this was such a solitary accomplishment.  My sister wanted to be at the finish line when I completed my first race, and she happened to be out of town that weekend.  I did finally break down and tell her that I was running, and immediately felt sad an teary that she wasn't going to be there.  But it was something that I had to do.

Friday after work I went to the registration desk and registered Angie and me for the race.  It was official!  I chose this particular race because it had some sentimental value to me.  It took place in the town that I grew up in, the course took us right in front of the house I grew up in, and it benefited the district's PTA.

As for the actual race?  I was really nervous.  I realized I probably wasn't prepared (but again, I just had to do it).  We positioned ourselves near the back of the pack and set off running.  We ran our first mile in 11 minutes (which for me, was not too shabby).  It was really quite hot and humid that day and I hadn't run in anything oppressive.  So we walked part of mile 2.  After mile 2 we decided to run again, and I realized I was slowing Angie down.  This was something that we both realized would happen.  I think we reconciled this fact with the understanding that this was a "dress rehearsal" for Angie's real 5k (which she ran a few weeks later and dropped 10 minutes from her time).  I began to feel frustrated and guilty for bringing her down, so I plead for her to run ahead, and I would finish on my own.

I should also take the time to state here that we were dead. last. the whole time.  There were even walkers ahead of us.  Yikes.

Somehow I found the fire in me to keep going (even though I had removed my number, thinking I didn't want anyone to think I was really the last person) and kept going.  And I finished.  Dead last.  That's not a hyperbole.  I was really last.  I got the pity clap (ugh).

But, I did it.  I followed through with the goal and I did it.  And two months before my 30th birthday!

So, am I a runner?  Eh, I don't know.  I took a week off and have been running sporadically since then.  I gave up the religious nature of my training and just wanted to do it for pleasure.  Sadly, I didn't "catch the 5k bug" as most people do.  I was mostly discouraged and disappointed with the race.  But I've decided I'll run at least one more -- probably in the fall when it cools down, just to say that I finished a 5k running the whole time.   

in(sanity)spiration

For the past 4 weeks I have been participating in my silliest, and my least-sane antic perhaps to date.  I am becoming a runner.

As my friends all start turning the Big 3-0, I realize that the final months of my twenties are upon me.  I wouldn't say I'm unhappy with my life and what I've done so far, but I suddenly started to feel really bad about one particular aspect of my personality I don't like.  Namely, my inability to follow through on actions.  

I am the queen of starting something and then jumping ship mid-activity (as particularly noted by the area of my apartment where partially completed crafts go to die).  I guess this all sprang from my former swimming career.  I swam all through high school, and set off to swim my first year of college.  I began the training for the season, and then sustained an injury, but not a career-ending one.  Only, I made it a career-ending injury, and never even competed in a collegiate meet.  I sometimes beat myself up about this; I wonder where I would be, or where I could have gone, had I only stuck with swimming.  (Lest you fear, I don't dwell on this continually, but I do think about it often)  [Why do I think I decided to make it a career-ending injury?  That's another story for another day.]

So I wanted to commit, and follow through on something, anything in my life.  And that thing, strangely, was running.

Even as a hot-shot swimmer, running and I weren't friends.  We have a bad history.  I find it incredibly boring (and before you start going on about how running and swimming are nearly identical, there's just something about swimming that I adore).  I lack the stamina to run.  I hate sweating.  The list goes on.  

And I'm sure you're thinking: then why the heck did you pick running?  I guess the reason I picked running was, it requires very little.  At the very minimum, all you need is a decent pair of shoes.  There are countless places to run, so space isn't really an issue.  And you have to carve out time to run -- but it's only 30 minutes.  I can do 30 minutes.

The second reason why I chose running was inspiration.  It seemed like every where I looked, I had friends who became runners late in life.  Friends at church, friends from work, friends from school.  So one day, after seeing a dear friend post on Facebook that she had just completed her first 10k, I decided I could do this.  I would  do this.  If she could do it (and all of the other people I know who were doing this), so. could. I.  

So I made a plan.  Finish a 5k before I turn 30.  Easy enough, eh?

Maybe you're asking yourself why I've taken so long to share this with you?  Well, it took me a while to share it with anyone.  I'm doing this for me.  To prove to myself that I can do this.  And I didn't want to tell anyone, because I didn't want to let people down, should I not complete my goal.  But then suddenly I started sharing, and I realized how many people I had cheering me on.  So I'm sharing with you, dear readers.

I also figured, that in addition to becoming a runner (that is still up for debate), I would probably learn a heck of a lot about a heck of a lot of things other  than running.  So I've been keeping a journal.  I'll probably share some snippets every now and then from that journal, but I'm finding that journaling to be completely cathartic, much like the running that is inspiring the writing, and there's some deeply personal stuff that's pouring out of my pen.  

Stay tuned, I just might inspire you too.  Or, my true insanity might come to the surface.

you look nice

I'd like to say I pride myself on looking nice.  I make sure I wake up with enough time to fully finish and style my hair, and wear a full face of makeup.  Sometimes this makeup application takes place within the confines of my Jetta, traveling 75 miles an hour on the highway; nevertheless, it is applied.  Additionally, I strive to put together a well-planned, fun outfit for each day.

In my advanced age, I feel like I have a pretty good grasp on what does, and doesn't look good on me, and I try to dress to show that.  I make peanuts, so it's not like I'm spending thousands of millions of dollars on clothes (in fact, most of my wardrobe is either Target, Old Navy or Gap Outlet), and I don't feel like it takes me any more time than a normal human being to get dressed in the morning.

I have a coworker, we'll call her LC, whom I only know very casually, although I did just recently find out she is the sister-in-law of one of my high school classmates (which is neither here nor there, and has no baring on the moral of this story).

I see LC almost every day walking down the hall in the morning as we sign in for the day.  And almost every day she will say, as we pass one another "Miss Johnson, you always look so nice!" And if LC has someone walking next to her, she'll then turn to them and say, "Doesn't Miss Johnson always look so nice?!" To which the other person will agree.

For a very long while I was flattered by this.  I might even go so far as to say I would hope to pass LC on my way to the office, just to have this pick-me-up.  Because, really, who doesn't like to hear they look nice?

And then one day, I talked myself out of liking this complement.  One day I really looked at LC.  LC is probably only a few years older than me, but she looks like she's 10 years older.  If I "look so nice" every day, then she is the total opposite.  Her hair is rarely done, beyond washing it and throwing wet hair into a ponytail.  There is no discernible evidence of any makeup applied.  Her typical wardrobe is a pair of ill-fitting pants, a zip up fleece of some sort, and a pair of running shoes.  And no, she isn't a physical education teacher.  So if someone who looks like a slob every day is telling me I "look so nice," is it really a complement?  I mean, anything is better than what she's showing up to work in every day.

I don't think I possess any special gift that makes me look well put-together.  In LC's defense, she does have three kids.  I have none.  So the only real place I can see where I have an advantage is on the time factor.  [Side Bar:  this Spring Break I made it a goal to not use any heated tools on my hair, unless absolutely necessary.  I wanted to give my poor hair a break from all the frying I do to it on a regular basis.  I successfully managed to only dry my hair three times over break, once on Easter, once yesterday -- I had a wedding, and once today, for church.  The lesson I learned in this, was I can, if hard pressed, get out of the door in 20 minutes, with a shower, and makeup, with my hair done in a cute, albeit still wet, way.  This is all to say, I'm not even sure I buy LC's time complaint.]

I'm convinced it takes just as much time and effort to put on a skirt, a pair of heels and a smudge of lipstick as it does to pull on a pair of cargo pants, a zippy and running shoes.

Another person who constantly tells me I look nice is the middle school aged girl who lives in my apartment building.  I also was totally flattered by her for a while.  Then one day I walked past her in a pair of ill-fitting yoga pants, greasy hair and a white t-shirt with a ketchup stain on it.  She cheerfully looked at me and said, "you look so nice!"

I'm starting to think this isn't much of a complement.

is this thing on?

I knew I hadn't written in a while, but I didn't realize just how long that while had been.  I can all tell you have missed my presence here on my corner of the interwebs.  Hehehe!

I'd like to say that big and grand things have been happening, but really they haven't.  Life has just kept plowing on, and I've been right there with it.

My grandmother did pass away in February.  She's the first of my grandparents to die, and it has been sad.  I suppose one day I'll write more about that.

I have been writing, elsewhere, in my own journals.  It seems like I've got a lot of stuff milling around in my head, most of it not even coherent thoughts on all sorts of life topics.  These seem better suited for paper, and my own eyes.  I like to keep things light around here.

So, here's hoping I'm back a little more often.  Three-plus months seems like a pretty long sabbatical!

the christmas letter that almost was

Sometime just before Thanksgiving I got this awesome idea that this year, I would send out a Christmas Newsletter.  As you will remember from before, my family sent out one of these letters every year for about 10 years.  (As a side note, my dad has copied and bound these letters, and my siblings and I are receiving them this year as part of our gifts).  Somehow there are still people who send these things out -- my aunt being one of them.  As mentioned before, these letters usually just gush on and on about how the previous year was so incredibly fabulous, about how the family took such amazing trips, bought a new car, a new house and a new million dollar diamond necklace.

My letter, however, would be a satirical twist on the traditional letter.  I would gush on and on about how I took trips to fabulous places (Salt Lake City and Clarksburg, TN), have an amazing job where I am totally appreciated (uhhh...), how I'm taking new classes and I'm top of my class, and how I have so much money I can't possibly find enough places and people to throw it at.  I also thought about heading out to a Target picture studio in some sort of awful turtleneck/sweater vest combo and have a picture taken to go with said letter.

Clearly this letter would only be sent to a few of my nearest and dearest friends who would appreciate such things.  But as I got to thinking about this actual letter I began to doubt my writing skills.  More specifically, my ability to really pull of the satire.  Because the more I thought about it, there is such a very fine, very grey line between being satirical and being bitter.  And bitter I am not.

While my job may be taxing at times, I really do love it.  And I am grateful to have a job, in the field I do, in the job market that is.  While I may still be single, I am appreciating that my time, money and things are my own.  I don't have to share them with anyone or anything I don't want to.  While I may not have kids, I have two amazingly wonderful nephews who I love more then breathing.  I love that they consider me a staple in their house and ask when I'm not there.  While I may not have a family of my own, I am so incredibly grateful for the family that I have.  I love that my siblings and I are the best of friends.  While it may not seem like I do much in a year, I am glad to have accomplished some of the things I have done.  I have great friends who appreciate me as much as I appreciate them.  I have realized this year that I have a lot to offer people, and I'm glad to have the time to do that.

So I'm not bitter -- but it would have been pretty darn fun to send that letter.  I guess there's always next year.

Here's wishing you and yours all the merry and happy you can stand -- and then some!