Hubris Will Bite You in the Ass

First, let me address the title of this piece. I was trying to show off and use a Big Word, but I confess that I had to look it up first. You know, to be sure I was using it correctly. So that's a little embarrassing. But here's what Wikipedia says:

Hubris /ˈhjuːbrɪs/, also hybris, from ancient Greek ὕβρις, means extreme pride or arrogance. Hubris often indicates a loss of contact with reality and an overestimation of one's own competence, accomplishments or capabilities, especially when the person exhibiting it is in a position of power. Hubris is usually associated with the "simple-minded". 

I'd like to call your attention to this section of the definition: Hubris often indicates a loss of contact with reality

Ummm, so, yes, I WAS using it correctly. If anyone's in doubt, there's also THIS:

Hubris is usually associated with the "simple-minded". 

Now that we've got that straight, on with my post! I secured my pants with a giant paper clip today. You know, one of these:

I know it's not a paper clip, but I'm too lazy to look up the proper word.

Why did I use this not-a-paperclip to fasten my pants, you ask? It wasn't because my zipper broke or the button fell off my pants. It's because the pants were so damn tight that I couldn't stand it anymore. So I hunched in my cubicle at work, unbuttoned the top button (OKAY, FINE, AND LOOSENED THE ZIPPER A BIT TOO), and used the clip to adjust them to a more, errrr, accommodating size. Fortunately, I was wearing one of my old wardrobe staples -- a baggy, forgiving shirt -- so I was fairly sure the freakish-looking shape that was now jutting out of my abdomen like the darling baby alien from "Alien" wasn't obvious.

It's a boy!

I didn't feel spectacular about wearing these particular pants today but I was in a rush, so I figured they would do. The pants are made of some bizarre linenish-but-not-remotely-natural material. They're gray and crinkley (bonus! No ironing required; they're SUPPOSED to look like that!). They're also kind of a "slim" fit. I'd jettisoned them from my wardrobe around the same time as my muffin top reared its grotesque head.

In case you needed a refresher...

Without doing anything resembling exercise, I've shed a few pounds. Maybe it's the Swank Diet? A raging case of terminal cancer, more likely. Whatever the reason, I vividly recall the moment I triumphantly welcomed the gray pants back into my wardrobe. I was tired of the same three pairs I'd been wearing. So, just last weekend, I eased open the closet door and gingerly took out the gray ones. I slipped them on, trotted over to the mirror, and -- no ghastly bulges. I turned around. No giant wedge!

"Welcome back to the rotation!" I said out loud, addressing my pants. No, really, I did. I said that to my pants in the mirror.

Clearly, I was feeling mighty pleased with myself. Clearly, I'd forgotten every single horror movie I'd ever seen (except for "Alien.") You know -- there's always a scene when a stupid character bellows: "Things couldn't POSSIBLY get any worse!"  or sighs, "Thank God...it's over!" after tossing the gun/knife/hammer aside, and you just shake your head because the person saying it is so stupid. Of course things will get worse (duh), and no way are they over.

So, yeah. That was me. Tempting fate and displaying a helluva lot of hubris with my smug little comment. It didn't matter that no one except Squeaky and Capt. Nap (and the pants) heard me; Fate heard me. And my comment came back to bite me in the ass.

I know what you're hoping. You're hoping I have a picture of myself crammed into these pants with the unsightly alien-like protrusion that you will secretly enjoy noting is TOTALLY obvious, baggy shirt or no baggy shirt. Nope! Sorry, friends. I do have a shred of dignity left. You'll have to be content with this:

In case you forgot, the pants are supposed to look that wrinkled.

I've left the clip right there on the hanger as a reminder for the next time I start feeling a bit too pleased with myself. It's also there for the next time I want to wear the pants!

Buon Giorno, Big Butt!

That's what my husband said to this me this morning when he saw me heaving myself out of bed. Okay, not really. He'd be dead right now if he did that. He wasn't even in the room when I rolled slowly out of bed, springs protesting mightily. Directly to the right of the bed is a full-length mirror. (You may remember that mirror from my awesome drawing in the post "What Muffin Top, Damnit?")

Having been permanently scarred by the Muffin Top Incident, I studiously avoid looking in that direction. The bathroom, naturally, is my first stop, where I am forced to shield my eyes from the massive mirror that takes up the top half the wall. (Who decided a bathroom that is half-mirror was a good idea? Clearly, some horrible person who wakes up looking lovely with no makeup, has fresh breath, and sleeps in an adorable nightie that showcases a fab set of gams.)

There IS one place you cannot avoid looking in a mirror: the dressing room of a store. (Well, I suppose you can, but that would be rather silly if you're going to pay good money for clothes.) This morning, I trotted out to the mall to buy some clothes. Specifically, I was seeking to trade in my frump-about-town look with a few posh yet casual, alluring but not slutty, pieces. I felt rather excited. I hadn't been clothes shopping in quite a while, and as we're planning a trip to Italy, I decided my high-waisted, ill-fitting capri jeans surely would scream AMERICAN TOURIST IN HIDEOUSLY OUTDATED ATTIRE and I'd be surrounded by those massive gangs of children who are lurking all over Europe waiting to prey on unwitting foreigners. I needed to get items that would allow me to blend in with the locals. Never mind that I don't speak Italian and will be clutching a phrase book and map, while my husband wrestles the camera out of its case to take pictures every 5 minutes. If anyone bothers to look at our clothes, we'll be the picture of European chic. I know, because I stopped in H&M straightaway.

For those not in the know, H&M is a super-cool European store with tons of clothes at inexpensive prices. (At least, it was when my friend from Spain was here...several years ago.) In fact, it has its own Wikipedia entry: "H&M is a Swedish multinational retail-clothing company, known for its fast-fashion clothing for men, women, teenagers and children." Yes, friends, yours truly is now the owner of FAST FASHION. That means straight off the runway. See if I don't get a modeling contract while I'm overseas. 

But I'm getting ahead of myself. The mirror. I was talking about the mirror. Ah, crap, so much for the modeling contract fantasy. Back to reality. I strolled into H&M, determined to not let the 20-year-old salesperson slouching near the entrance intimidate me. I gave him a curt, European-looking nod, and casually rifled through a rack of tops, trying to not make it obvious that I was checking prices. I was pleased to note several other women in the store who were even older than I am (and no, they weren't accompanying their teenage daughters). 

It took a little digging: the first few displays featured items that were a bit too, er, exciting for a woman of my advanced years. Think fringe, faux leather, and extremely short shorts. I pushed on, determined that I would find something, anything, and then I struck gold. Here's a secret: they hide the older-lady garments in the back! I began snatching items from shelves and off hangers and into my arms, which were soon full. Slouchy Salesperson didn't offer to help, so I staggered into the dressing room with far more than the 7 Items Per Customer allotment. I hurried out of my embarrassing non-H&M outfit and into the first pair of pants. They were...a bit snug. Damn European sizes. I threw on my embarrassing non-H&M outfit and raced back into the store, grabbing some larger pairs of the same pants. I was horrified to discover that the pair two sizes up fit (TWO SIZES?). Damn European sizing. Everyone knows it's all off. No matter. They were cute and, combined with some fast-fashion baggy tops, I was looking molto bene. 

After hastening back into the embarrassing non-H&M outfit I'd worn into the store, I made a grievous mistake. I glanced in the mirror. Blast! Damn dressing room lighting. Everyone knows it's designed to make you look ghastly. The skirt, in particular, in the harsh overhead light, was showcasing some dimples and crevices I thought, you know, that CLOTHES WOULD COVER PROPERLY. Damn skirt. I knew what I needed, STAT, and the mall was the right place to get it: Spanx. My God, I've heard of these wonders but I had no idea how fantastic they are. In essence, they are skintight underwear that squash into oblivion about 47 bumpy spots on the hips, thighs, bottom, stomach...in other words, they make you look as if you are toned and fit without the hassle of actually working out. I fell instantly in love. Unfortunately, the effect is temporary. When I wrestled out of the Spanx, my thighs actually made a cartoon "Sproing!" noise as they resumed their former shape. 

Nevertheless, I am buoyed by this miracle of modern science. Watch out, Italy! Ms. CrankyPants in her fast-fashion wardrobe and Spanx is coming to town!  

Shot Night!

I know what you're thinking: What's that wild and crazy Ms. CrankyPants up to? More carousing? Partying 'til the wee hours? Getting drunk and performing (horribly) "You're The One That I Want" from Grease at a karaoke bar?

No, no, and no. All of those things happened in a different life, before I was Ms. CrankyPants and when I was Ms. PartyGirl. (The same young lady who earned a staggering .25 GPA her third semester at college.)

No, ladies and gents, the shots I'm referring to now aren't vodka-soaked jello or tequila, they're actual shots. As in, injections. Quite a different type of shot. Instead of hurting the next morning, you hurt right away! Instead of making you think you are sexy and can sing well, they make you feel like a cranky pincushion! 

Yeah, THIS kind of shot. Not nearly as fun as the jello kind. That book with the diagrams and scribbles is how I keep track of where I've injected myself. 

When I was first diagnosed, my neurologist prescribed Rebif. A nurse was assigned to come by my house and show me how to give myself the three-times-a-week subcutaneous injections. Ms. Nurse sat at my dining room table patiently while I worked up the courage to give myself a test injection using an auto-injector thingy that you slip the needle into and push a button, which then pops the needle into your skin. Incredibly (it seemed to me), she said injecting myself in the stomach would be the least painful. (Could she detect my muffin top through my clothes? Obviously.) Lo and behold, she was right! The cushiony folds of my stomach proved a fairly painless place to inject myself. Thank God I never got in shape! Now I had an ironclad excuse for not developing abs of steel.

As it turned out, I also would now have an excuse for remaining flabby all over. I was to inject myself in my arms, thighs, hips/butt, and, as mentioned, stomach. All problem areas covered! (My knees and elbows are in tip-top shape, as naturally I've been working out rigorously where I can...)

I remained on Rebif for more than three years until an MRI revealed new lesions and a blood test showed I was developing antibodies to Rebif. So, my neuro switched me to Copaxone. Now, instead of three times a week, SHOT NIGHT!! would be every night. Ugh. A different Helpful Nurse came over to my house and sat at my dining room table to show me how to inject myself. By now I was an old hat at this. I sat there patiently while she showed me the new auto-injector thingy, which was identical to the old injector thingy, and explained the areas where I was to give the injections (same). She did give me some exciting new items, such as an attractive carrying case for my supplies.

As you can see, it's casual enough for everyday use, yet elegant (note French writing), so it won't look out of place paired with a gown. Importantly, Wee Squeaky can fit inside. 

For those who haven't seen one, here's the auto-injector thingy.

The needle is nicely hidden inside so you don't have to SEE it jabbing into your skin, although I know some people prefer doing it themselves [shudder].

I've been on Copaxone for several years now, with no serious side effects. There is the dreaded Immediate Post-Injection Reaction, which I've heard Actual People say feels like a heart attack coupled with an inability to breathe and Copaxone Representatives say feels like slight shortness of breath and maybe a little chest pain. I reckon the truth is somewhere in the middle but knock on wood, I haven't had that experience yet.

The worst of it usually is some temporary pain/burning at the site and bruising. So much for toting the elegant blue bag, pictured above, with a short gown. Also, and probably for the best at my advanced age, shorts and miniskirts are OUT. My thighs routinely look as though I've been in an unfortunate horse-trampling incident.

Sorry for the suggestive picture; I show this not to titillate but to educate. 

The bruise above happened after a routine thigh injection. I don't even think it hurt very much. I was horrified (as I'm sure you are) to see THIS beauty blooming on my thigh the next morning. It lasted for many days, providing me ample time to point to it piteously and ask my husband to bring me a snack. But I think you can see why my days of wearing anything above the knee are long gone.

What Muffin Top, Damnit?

I've been working out a lot lately.

HAHAHA! That was a complete and utter lie. I just wanted to try it on for size. It sounds good, huh? So here's the truth: I've been thinking about working out a lot lately. Okay, okay, I haven't been thinking about it a lot. Just a little. Especially this morning.

It's finally cooled off here, I'm no longer a hot, hot mess, and I decided today was a good day for jeans. I experienced the first glimmerings of dismay as I surveyed the neat piles of denim in my closet. I took a deep breath and seized the closest pair. I got one leg in and heaved the jeans to the top of my left thigh, at which point any momentum ground to a halt. I engaged in a shimmying struggle to get them up any farther.

"Fine, I'll just get another pair," I thought, flinging the clearly-shrunken-in-the-wash (and hideously ugly to boot) jeans on the bed. The next pair similarly resisted my frenzied hitching and heaving. I hunched in the middle of the bedroom, panting, the jeans wadded up at the top of my grotesque sausage legs.

I scraped them off, kicked them under the bed, and looked balefully at the remaining jeans in my closet. Was I going to subject myself to any more of this humiliation? Yes, yes I was. This time, though, I checked the labels. Finally I found what I was looking for: the jeans that are about 10 percent denim and 90 percent some stretchy material. They slipped on like a rather snug glove.

"That's more like it!" I thought triumphantly, sauntering over to the full-length mirror to admire myself.

Big mistake. I should have just thrown on a baggy, forgiving shirt and left the room, because what greeted me was a reflection of myself crammed into ultra-tight pants with a pale and doughy muffin top. For those of you unfamiliar with the term "muffin top," allow me to illustrate (brace yourselves):

Incredibly, here's what I thought I'd see (note, please, the ample bosom; that should have been a clue that I was delusional).

And THIS is what I actually saw. If you click on the images, you can see them in all their glorious detail. 

So, here I sit in my nearly 100-percent-stretchy-material jeans, vowing that I will start exercising, STAT! Oh, and in case you are wondering, I immediately put on a baggy, forgiving shirt after seeing my muffin top in the mirror. The cat? I have no idea where she is. Kitty therapy?