Not bad for a fat girl


Dusting Off the Welcome Mat

Last night before I went to bed I clicked on my blog stats. My fingers were crossed, but I told myself it was a very good day regardless. I held my breath, and checked the number of visits. Would my old record be broken? And who was I, obsessing about these numbers? What does this say about my personality? I’ve blogged about addictive personality before, but I’m still not certain how I feel about it, or whether my little mini-obsessions count.  Anyway, there is was. The number of visits for the day. I was 5 clicks shy of my one day record. Dammit. And still 49 followers. Ok, calm down. It was a great day in the blog world. I had visitors from Hungary, Israel, Australia, Guernsey (which I knew is a cow, but didn’t know was a country), Canada, Great Britain, Switzerland, France, and the United States. C’mon, how cool is that? In my quest to color in my world map, I’m definitely making some progress.  C’mon Greenland and South America, click on over.6a00d8350186ed53ef016769314b68970b-800wi

I sometimes worry that this blog might be feeling a little schizophrenic. Yes, its main focus is about living life as a fat woman and how I’m seeking to improve the quality of that life.  But in order to do that, and in order to freely write about what’s important to me, I will often go off that topic. After all, I’m more than just a fat person. I’m a parent and an educator and a quilter, to name a few of my roles. These are topics I also write about, with a strong dash of opinions on many things random.  I will post my quilting endeavors, and I will write to daily prompts. Many of you have found me through those venues. I’m glad you have.  I hope you can tolerate the many types of posts that I share.

Back to the main topic though, this morning I decided I was being rather silly about the whole thing. Yes, it’s an absolute thrill to know that people the world over are taking a moment to click through my site, and maybe they’re staying long enough to read my thoughts. What’s more exciting to me, though, is knowing that there are kindred spirits out there. You are the ones who leave a message of encouragement, or stop by the Facebook page, or leave a pingback (which I’m still trying to figure out).  You are the ones nodding your head while you read, or laughing at something ridiculous I’ve written, or yelling at the screen because you are absolutely certain that I am dead wrong about something. Good. I’m glad you do. I’m glad you’re here and spending a few minutes of your precious time with me. Many of you are brand new readers, and several of you have become old friends, if you can have old friends after just two short months.  For all of you, I’m dusting off my welcome mat, and reminding you that no matter who you are or where  you’re from, you are welcome to stop by whenever you would like. And just for the record, feel free to bring a friend.


Daily Prompt: These Boots Were Made for Walking

Today’s daily prompt has challenged me to think about my favorite pair of shoes and where they have taken me.  I mentally scanned my inventory of memorable shoes smiling at several before moving on to another pair. The bright orange Chuck Taylor’s from my college years, the insanely high dominatrix pumps that never made it out of my closet, the embroidered leather Keds that I wore at my wedding reception, they all bring a warm feeling to my heart. Still, none of these compare to the most versatile and incredible pair of shoes I’ve ever owned, the black suede Esprit t-strap rubber soled workhorses.


These aren’t the exact shoes, but a pretty good likeness. Too bad this is a child’s shoe!

I don’t recall buying these shoes, but of course I must have. My earliest recollection of them is as an undergraduate. Those shoes had the comfort of a tennis shoe but with a lot more style. I wore them with just about everything; leggings, dresses, mini skirts, genie pants, my dad’s old army pants, and of course jeans. It wasn’t until I studied abroad, though, that they really came into their own.

You see in those days, the eighties, it was very easy to spot Americans in Europe by their shoes alone. Our obsession with comfort for our feet wasn’t shared by our European counterparts in those days, I guess. Either that, or their solution was foreign to American feet. Either way, I didn’t want to be the obvious American in my travels, so those black shoes covered a lot of miles (or kilometers, depending on the country). They took me across the English channel and through Belgium, Germany, Switzerland, and Italy. They hopped a plane with me for a jaunt to Portugal. They spent Christmas with me at the home of a remarkable Swiss family, and they were on my feet as I dined on Indian food alone on New Year’s Eve in Manchester, England. They walked all over London, and day and night through York. They carried me home from the pub at night and off to class in the morning.

Eventually my time in Europe drew to a close, and my shoes and I went home. I graduated college and got my first job, supervising an after school program. Casual dress was the order of the day, so on many days the t-straps were on my feet. They moved on with me to graduate school, and spent more time in the closet as professional dress became the order of the day. When I landed a preschool position I was overjoyed to be reunited with them. Two year olds didn’t care that I wore stretchy pants and t-strap shoes!

Those shoes came along as I moved out west and became a married woman. They were on my feet as a drone office worker, and even as a young mother. Eventually one day I took a good hard look at them. They were a wreck. Those wonderful shoes that had logged millions of miles were tired. They could no longer comfort my feet, and they were smelly and falling apart. After a more than a decade of heavy use, I conceded that it was time to let them go. I will never forget those shoes and how they walked me through some of the best years of my life.