I’m going out for dinner
tonight.
This shouldn’t be a big
deal, at least for normal people, but I’m not normal. I’ve been sick and/or in recovery mode for
ten days now, and I haven’t exactly been eating anything exceptionally
exciting: soup, lots and lots and lots of soup; tea; juice; bagels; rice;
hamburger; linguini; bread … safe foods.
Thanks to the medications, I’ve been away from alcohol for ten days, as
well. This really isn’t an issue for me,
but I do enjoy a decent glass of wine every now and then, and this nasty muggy
weather screams for an ice cold beer, neither of which I have been able to
enjoy.
So, tonight I’m going to
attempt to eat something more exotic than chicken noodle out of a can and
maybe, just maybe, sip a little wine while tempering it with soda. This fills me with sincere excitement.
Conundrum solved,
right? Wrong. You see, it’s still nasty, gross, and thickly
humid outside. While I’d like nothing
more than to wear jeans and a comfy shirt, the weather and the venue call for a
change of my usual attire. No
problem. I have a tiny closet stuffed
with possible outfits.
For an hour I try stuff
on. Too casual. Too fancy.
Too short. Too long. I cannot decide.
Finally, I remember where
all decent outfits start: shoes. In the midst of being sick, a friend took me
with her to DSW, knowing full-well that clearance shoe therapy is the best
therapy of all (she is correct). I
bought two pair of kick-ass sandals – one in fuschia and one in pewter. I decide on the pewter, a subtle silvery color
that looks both smart yet discreetly casual.
Then, I move on to
anything in the closet that will be appropriate for the weather. Good.
I move the outfits to the left and start trying them on with the shoes,
narrowing it down to three possibilities.
Finally, I realize that I’m still feeling a little funky, so comfort is
tantamount this evening. I put on the
most comfortable of all, a loose dress that feels almost like pajamas.
I look in the mirror.
Okay, so it looks a little
bit like I’m wearing a spotted muumuu. A
LOT like I’m wearing a spotted muumuu. I
can smuggle leftovers under my dress on the way out if I want to, maybe even an
entire bottle of wine, a busboy if I’m so inclined.
I don’t care. I am so damn happy to be getting out of this
house for something other than a medical crisis that I’ll wear ten muumuus if I
have to. Look out, restaurant, I’m
heading out for dinner for my first full meal in almost two weeks. I sure hope my new shoes can hold up under
the pressure.
