the misfit in me

“This jacket fits weird.   I am small chested and there is way too much room in the chest area but it is a little snug in the hip area.   I am a size 8 and it’s going to be a tight fit when I am wearing this jacket and my ski pants.   If you are a large chested woman with narrow hips, this jacket is made for you. “

This review — written about the Arc’teryx Sidewinder jacket I just bought — which fits me to a tee and I love love love way more than a human should love a thing made of Gore-Tex —

Tells you more than you might want to know about me —

Or perhaps it only confirms what you do  know about me and my “weird” shape — and I’m not just talkin’ about my proportions —

But then again —

Maybe I am.

Because in a way the scale of anything you possess or present or think or do or dream ultimately determines whether you will —

Fit —

Or not.

But thankfully for all of us roaming this planet, too much of something in some crowds is not enough in other crowds and —

Magically —

Mysteriously —

Mystifyingly —

It’s oh so — ahhhh so perrrrrr-fect — o —

In just the right crowd.

Or setting.  Or job.  Or relationship.

Many a matched set has been made from apparent misfits.   And I — for one — am especially grateful for this phenomenon.

Because when the misfit in me meets the misfit in you —

Chances are, we’re a whole lot more real than not —

And I know, without a doubt —

We’re kinder and more tolerant of each others’ spots and —

Square wheels.

unhinged

It’s never just one thing that makes the door fall off the hinges —

And yet.

It usually is one thing —

More than  others —

That had you listened to it when it  —

Pinged you in the gut, blocked the alleyway, raised its hand and commanded —

Yo!  Halt! 

Gehen Sie nicht weiter!!!

Had you only listened and let yourself hear—

“If I do nothing — if I say nothing — it will only be a matter of time before this knocks me out cold and leaves me for dead —”

Well, perhaps I would not be struggling to breathe now, arms and legs pinned beneath the rubble —

Options for my next moves — extremely limited —

Narrowed and impaired.

But thankfully, there are still a few more moves to make from this position.

And I’m not done yet. 

Yeah —

And how.

xmas cowboy boots

A little boy I’ve never met drove me into the eye of holiday mall madness this year —

And I’m thinkin’ maybe — just maybe — I’ve been missing somethin’ the last 20 years or so in my no-nonsense approach to holiday gift giving —

And I’m not sure I’m ready to go — all elfy — and start shopping for my 11 nieces and nephews between 1 and 21 who seem to have everything their hearts desire, but — oh, by gosh, by golly —

I am ever so grateful Gabriel asked for cowboy boots —

And I’m — uh — more than just a tad surprised at myself that  — even with the option to throw some cash in an envelope or pick up a Cub grocery certificate — I could not resist this 13-year-old boy’s request to send me into the winter night in search of boys size 13 cowboy boots.

My first night — though hardly intended — was purely a fact finding mission.   Seven stores and two hours later, not one piece of footwear remotely resembling a cowboy boot.  

I met Kath — who I found to be very helpful and informative on many things including how Walmart screwed its employees out of bathroom breaks and now has to pay millions — on my last stop and she gave me my marching orders for the next night —

Brilliant.  Why didn’t I think of this in the first place? 

Well — er — quite possibly because the Mall of America is the last place on earth I want to drive myself or take myself any day or night of the year.   And December —

God help me. 

But this is my responsibility now.  And at this point — well, what could be more important than finding Gabriel’s cowboy boots?

So it’s night two and I’m greeted by no less than three bona fide cowboys — at least by their hats, boots and snapped up shirts —

And you can imagine my amazement and  —  utter befuddlement to realize — upon locating the boys size 13 cowboy boots within the acres and acres of cowboy boots lined up in every size, shape and color under the western sun that —

Boys 13 is — tiny.

Fit for a toddler, I think, but of course I cannot be sure of this — but certainly —

I cannot buy these tiny little hardly authentic boots for Gabriel age 13 who wants —

Cowboy boots.

Because, well — Tyler, hatted man who is helping me, says —

“I wore mens size 13 when I was 13.”

Wha—at? 

Ok.   So these are BIG.  But I gotta go with it.  I’m tryin’ to picture Gabriel as a midget with baby size 13 and — nope. 

This is the wild wild west and I’m outta my comfort zone in every way now so — we’re gettin’ the Justins —mens size 13. 

Gabriel — whoever you are — this time, more than ever,  I hope I did the right thing by erring on the side of —

Bigger is —

Better.

God bless.

wish big

The only thing more anticipated than Christmas morning in our house was the arrival of the —

Sears Wish Book. 

Of course there were only a handful of pages my brothers and sisters and I cared about — and yet —

Night after night we huddled cheek-to-cheek on the brown nubby couch, stray springs popping out here and there, tell tale signs of our bouncing and banging or rocking when— well —

There was nothing to hold our attention like — the wish book of wide-eyed imagination and un-adult-erated glee —

And — we were —

Still.

Si-lent. 

Deeply engrossed in —

Wishing.

I love the image of our 10 pajama feet lined up on the old couch — none of them touching the ground.

As it should be when —

You’re walking on air.