Sick & tired of staying home
IF you can’t rush out and be partying, the alternative is to stay in and be kvetching. However, the homebound hearth creates other problems. Weight and width.
Things which once fit now don’t. Jackets that once circled the waist now won’t. Nibbling? Snacking? Easy to say, “Instead of leftover carrot cake, just chew on a stalk of celery.” I mean, really? That choice was already discarded in the emergency need to claw out the remaining calcified rye bread crust in order to navigate shelf room so fingers could reach the 2-week-old leftover liverwurst slice. And even if that was ice-cold, so what. Went down quicker.
A fashionista, whose waist is narrower than Scotch tape — unlike mine — said: “It’s because you’re not exercising. Not running. Not walking.” Running? What’s she talking about? Like in a marathon?
Please. Two blocks to Duane Reade for mascara, and I’m winded. What thehell running is she talking about?
I learned tricks. A longish sweater/ blouse/jacket. My new best friend’s a rubber band. Loop that rubber band around the waistband’s button, stretch it through the buttonhole then re-loop it back to the button. Perfect. But don’t discard that short, cropped jacket you once loved. It’s not wasted. You can always use it to clean the sink.
I have to rescreen Macaulay Culkin’s “Home Alone” because I’m having trouble with the joys of a household lockup. How’s unending irritation with your husband/parent/kid/ live-in/housekeeper/ friend/cheapo uncle the sponge? Even lockdown claustrophobia in Manhattan Correctional Center seems roomier. At least with good behavior you could maybe bust out of your 800-squarefoot cell by April.