I've decided that I'm going to go for a jog tomorrow morning. For exercise. For more than a few minutes.The inspiration for this is my new sports bra. It fits me and everything. Bras don't usually fit me, mostly because (now this is something I don't think I've ever made a point of mentioning in here, because, you know, it's a weird thing to talk about) one of my boobs is unsettlingly larger than the other. And I know it's normal to have one a little bigger than the other, but mine are different enough that I've had doctors send me to get ultrasounds on them just to make sure there's nothing wrong with them, and had one plastic surgeon I visited just to find out what my options were make me feel like a hideous freak with no hope of looking halfway decent without several breast-related operations. So don't try to reassure me that my boobs are normal, because most of you haven't seen them, OK? Thanks.
I'm not bitter, though.
Anyway, I've always been wearing these too-small bras because whenever I get one that fits the bigger boob, I end up with this awkward air pocket over the other one, and I just really would rather not have to stuff. But on Saturday I managed to find two bras in a bigger size that fit me, sans air pockets. The cups had just the right amount of give to conform to each breast comfortably.
And in case you're wondering, the 38C is the one that did the trick.
So tomorrow I'm going for a jog. Then I have to take the girl rats to the vet, because Olive has been walking around with her head tilted way off to one side to the point where she regularly loses her balance and flips over, which is apparently a symptom of some sort of ear infection. Poor baby. I'm playing with her right now, and she just stepped on the keyboard and very nearly made me close off this window. She did manage to type ";;;;;9;ook" before I pulled her furry little body off the keys, though. As for an update on the other rats, in case anyone cares, Minerva and Seamus are each sleeping soundly in their respective cages, and Milo is perched precariously on top of the boys' food bowl, licking his enormous balls. The gerbils are somewhere in their glass aquarium under heaps and heaps of wood chips, the only evidence of their presence indicated by the occasional slight movement of chips in one corner.
This is how I deal with not being allowed to own a dog.
Work is going alright, but I'm thinking maybe I should try to get a job waitressing somewhere to make more money. I don't get tips working retail. Oh, and the reason I'm feeling so money-hungry is because, as you may have read in James' diary, he and I are saving to move in together this summer. I'm very excited. Very very very excited.
I keep biting this one same spot on the inside of my mouth. Not on purpose. I did it once by accident while eating, and now there's this little bit of sore mouth skin where I bit it that sticks out right where my molars are, so I keep accidentally biting it over and over. I hate when that happens.
I have this dilemma. See, I really want to hate Old Navy, you know, because it's this giant corporation that uses third world countries to manufacture its clothes, but I keep finding attractive, reasonably-priced clothes there in my sizes, and it's making it very hard for me to hate it. How do you suggest I deal with this? I mean, where do I go to shop until I either lose a bunch of weight or become good at making my own clothes? Where in Canada, that is. Where does a short size 16 Canadian girl with little money to spend go to buy clothes?
Maybe I'll just start wearing burlap sacks and sneakers and see if it catches on.
I'm going to end on this note, because I don't have much more to talk about, and I think the Simpsons are on soon.
Goooooooooodniiiiiiiiiiight! [ding ding ding ding ding].
(I'd explain that, but I'm too lazy.)
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