It's amazing the ways your subconscious chooses to deal with sudden shifts in life and reality.
I find myself suddenly addicted to white. In the last three weeks alone, I've bought 10 white shirts--V-neck, crew neck, short sleeved, long sleeved. 20 new pairs of white socks join at least two pairs of new white underwear, and the apartment I'm looking to rent in Florida? White from top to bottom, if one does not count the very funky purple bathtub...
Not that one rents an apartment solely for bathtub color, but it's nice to know I can get excited about more than one color at a time.
Incidentally, I'm imagining this is how a whole generation of people felt when color television replaced black-and-white television...
But when one no longer has to see how many clothes were ruined by the terrible water that existed inside the washing machine--well, it just gives you a whole new appreciation for what you can and cannot purchase and expect to last longer than three or four washings, you know?
I have almost nothing left of the wardrobe I left with. Half of it is because they were orange-stained, orange-spotted, or otherwise... The otherwise being an overall uniform orange-ish shade that iron does when it doesn't actually feel like ruining your clothes, but doesn't want them to stay the same shade that they were to begin with either.
The other half being, of course, the 70 or so pounds I've lost. Just the other night, when I slipped on that pair of size 34 jeans and expected to have to pull ever so slightly... And didn't have to pull? The fact that I could still fit two fingers easily between the waistband and my actual waist?
You don't have to imagine how weird it feels to feel your clothes touching your body. Now that I can purchase clothing that actually fits my not-quite-lanky-but-getting-there build, I have to wonder when the consciousness of fabric against skin will disappear. Not that I consider myself skinny yet. (After all, in my head, skinny doesn't come with love handles... They will be banished if I have any say about it!) But the fact that I once again turn heads when I enter a club is a good feeling, and while I know even on my best days I'm about a seven, I'll take it.
Speaking of seven...
And this is *not* to brag, but an observation of slight incredulity and slight pride...
And may be TMI for my more motherly reading audiences.... (Mom, you have been warned... Yes, YOU, Mom... No, my other Mom... Duh!)
Apparently I'm gifted in the "downstairs" area. As my most recent paramour put it, "Well, of course you don't think it's big--you've had it your whole life!"
Touche... But true, I suppose. Unlike (I think? I'm on the verge of clicheing my race here...) most gay men, I don't really think about it, whether it's mine or theirs, you know? I expect a man to have one, of course. It's kind of integral, actually, to the whole "gay" thing! But it never crossed my mind with any past lovers to think, "Oh! That's big!" or "Oh, it's so cute and little!" That last one may have landed me a punch in the face if I had ever thought it, let alone said it! But I think you get the drift. I still disagree on semantics, I suppose. After all, most people consider Hawthorne a large dog, but to me, 50 lbs is barely on the medium side.
But what do I know?
That I love white, I suppose. And size 34 jeans.
And I'm probably gonna have a purple tub.