on reaching a goal...

Nothing feels better than going into Target for a few items, and walking out with a pair of bermudas in a size that you haven't been able to fit over your bum into nearly two years.

Trust me on this: it's magical.

I was browsing Target this morning for some new tops to bring on our upcoming trip. (I also needed to pick up a birthday gift for my youngest sister, but was fresh out of ideas for a seven-year-old. So many of the toys and dolls are quite tacky and disappointing these days. Yes, my future children will be raised in a cardboard box to keep them away from this whole Bratz doll culture we all live in.) Anyway, as far as clothes are concerned, I found an armload of items to try (especially some adorable tanks, which I basically live in), and even grabbed these size 2 bermudas to try on. I figure, what the heck. If they don't fit, I'll just experience the usual dressing-room-angst and move on with my day.

I walk up to the dressing room attendant, and immediately remembered why I hate my local Target store. The girl is sitting there, and doesn't look up when I walk up to the desk. I wait for her to look, because I'm always slightly bothered when they don't sense my presence. Call me picky, but I'm expected to do it at my job, and therefore I am slightly obsessive when it comes to customer service, at times. The girl finally looks up, and I ask her if I'm only allowed to bring in six items. She says yes, gives me a number, and then motions for me to put the extra clothes on the counter in front of her. I'm a wee bit wary, because every time I've done this in the past, the clothes are mysteriously gone when I come back for them. EVERY SINGLE TIME. Still, I set them down, give a girl a look that I'm hoping conveys my need for these clothes to be here when I return, and meander over to my dressing room.

A few of the shirts I try on are basically maternity shirts, because apparently everyone shopping in the junior's section these days wants to wear a cotton sack that does absolutely nothing to flatter their figure. Seriously. I did find a couple tanks to buy (the gray one in the photo was only $5!) and got around to trying on the bermudas that had been taunting me. I tried them on and was all, "What." Or maybe I said, "By the beard of Zeus." (I'm not exactly sure.) They fit! They fit me well! They didn't even give me a muffin-top! I could button them and breathe! Dude. I was pumped. I may have done a happy dance in the dressing room, even. (A slight variation of my pose in the center photo. Don't judge me.)

I went back out to switch out a few of the cotton sacks for the other clothes I had waiting at the desk, and lo and behold, they were gone. I walked up to the girl, and I think held back my frustration quite well.

me: "Um, hi."
girl: (looking up as if seeing me for the first time.) "Hi! Three items?"
me: (thinking: Do you seriously not remember seeing me five minutes ago? Or notice that I just walked up to you FROM THE DRESSING ROOMS?) "Actually, I just set a few things here to try on? Are they...around?"
girl: "What? Oh. Huh."
me: (blink.)
girl: (blink.)
me: (raises eyebrows.)
girl: (looks around.) "Weeellll, what did they look like?"
me: (wondering why I'm expected to remember details of clothes I have not yet worn or purchased.) "Some jeans, a couple shirts? Maybe?"
girl: (digging through cart next to the bin.) "These?"
me: "Yeah. Those. Thanks. Bye."

I did not let her apparent lack of attention to anything in the entire world bother me, however. Because I found some adorable clothes that I was about to buy, and experienced a serious ego boost in the process!

I haven't fit comfortably into a size 2 in about two years. After we arrived home from our honeymoon, I remember stepping on the scale (not a good idea after an entire week of gluttony) and seeing the glaring numbers: 137. I am in no way saying that 137 is obese, but you know how your body is when you're at your best. And you know how your body is when you're at your worst. (Keep in mind that I'm 5'3" and petite. Usually.) I was looking a little soft around the edges at 137. And not feeling good about myself. However, I sort of let it slide because I have a habit of being a wee bit stubborn and lazy.

It wasn't until I had to start shoving clothes that I adored into the corners of my dresser (so as not to remind myself that they no longer fit properly), that I started to really take action. You all know the story: small steps to a healthier diet, work-outs a few times a week, finally beginning this whole running endeavor, etc. And it feels good to see the pay-off. Granted, it took alot longer to see results because I really took it slow, but I'm glad that I've stuck with something that I will be able to stick with long term. Whenever I hear of people on these crazy diets or workout plans, I want to shake them. Because they are setting themselves up for failure. I tell you, if a girl like me has been able to do it in my own little way, then anyone can. I'm finally down to 120. And so, so happy. Part of me hopes that I can get down to 115 (what I weighed when I first moved to California), but I'm not going to pressure myself anymore.

I know I can be happy with where I am now.

That said, I figured that I could splurge on a $17 pair of bermudas to reward myself on reaching a personal goal. (Perhaps my next goal could possibly have to do with not being so cheap. That's a thought.)

Oh, and one more story. I find it slightly upsetting that just when you're feeling like a complete goddess, something really brings you back to reality. When I got to work today, I changed into a fresh shirt before starting. I went outside to greet some customers, happy and cheerful and pretty much a smiling ball of sunshine. Afterwards, as I was going to walk back inside, one of my male coworkers looked at me all funny and pulled me aside.

coworker: "Um, the back of your skirt. It's open."
me: "I'm sorry, what? OH. MY GOSH."
coworker: (walks away, apparently awkward about situation.)
me: (thankful that the only thing showing was the back of my shirt.) "Thanks for telling me?"

Yes. Apparently I fail at dressing myself. True story.