Lately, my whining about my wardrobe has become a constant high-pitched buzzing around here, like bees on the swarm. And yet, I pathologically refuse to do anything productive about it. Every weeknight Sir Monkeypants comes home and says, “Why don’t you go out tonight and shop for some new clothes? Here’s a coupon for Mark’s and I hear that Eddie Bauer is having a sale. If you leave now you’ll have a good two hours of shopping time, all to yourself.” And then I shudder in horror, and claim to be FAR FAR too tired for a two-hour ordeal at the mall, my poor delicate flower of a self, so I am forced to spend the time lying on the couch in front of Deal Or No Deal, whining about how terrible my wardrobe is, instead.

Pity Sir Monkeypants.

A few days ago I told Sir Monkeypants that I absolutely, most definitely, was going to do something about it. To force myself to go the mall and ack, try stuff on, I would throw away everything in my closet that was 15 years old, or more. You might chuckle and think, oh, that can’t be more than a few items, could it? And to you I say, TRY ME. Seriously, Sir Monkeypants laughed when I told him about my new resolution because if I actually carried it through, I’d be left with about four things in my closet, all of which were gifts, and none of which fit me.

So rather than run around naked, I decided to keep my 15+-year-old wardrobe, stretched out and stained and ill-fitting though it may be. Besides, although I hate my clothes, they are little more than Mommy-shaped barf-cloths anyway, so what’s the point in putting on something that I actually care about?

But still. I see the other Mommies at my kids’ schools and they are wearing clothing that actually came from this decade. And sometimes they even have a little foundation and lip gloss on, maybe some nail polish and a pair of shoes that were not hand-me-downs from one of their sisters. It makes me think, hey, why can’t I be that Mommy? Why can’t I have a little style, too? Could it really be that hard?

Then the end of the day rolls around and I’m a big tired lump on the couch who is still 30 pounds overweight and I think, oh hell, why bother.

I’m really fun to live with, aren’t I?

Anyway, my point here, and I do have a point, is that today I managed to squeeze myself — with the help of a shoe horn and a healthy application of moisturizer — into my hot ass jeans. These are about four sizes above my skinny jeans, but still they are incredibly amazing pants that manage to combine style, comfort, and fit in one spectacular package. These pants not only make me feel attractive again, but having to constantly hold in my tummy to fit inside them is giving me a pseudo all-day workout. By tomorrow I’ll be able to zip them up without the shoe horn, I can tell!

So I have new resolve to go out TONIGHT, THIS VERY EVENING, and find new tops that will do justice to my hot ass pants. They deserve better than this 20 year old t-shirt I have on with pit stains. And in the vastness that is the mall, surely there will be one thing that fits me, right? One thing that is a nice colour and flattering without being too tight that makes me feel like a person and not a recepticle for barf? Yes?

I have hope. But check in again with me in two hours.