The blog entry in which I confess to being a total lame ass a.s.s.

With all the new changes over at Babycenter I haven't had time for blogging much this week. I loooooooove the new boards... and I'm not just saying that because I'm a host and I'm sure they would like for me to say that. I think the avatars rock (who doesn't love a sombrero-wearing chihuahua? I mean, honestly?) and I like the option for the siggys (let's face it, I am kind of a big deal). I think change is good. I'm thinking of doing a little inservice on Who Moved My Cheese to help those who are complaining of their eyeballs bleeding out from just having to look at the new format.

Anyhoo, back to me being a lame ass a.s.s. Last weekend I was feeling kind of adventerous so I loaded up the monsters and headed to Old Navy. I bought a skirt and a pair of denim gauchos. Seeing as how I had 25 pounds of baby strapped to me with a Baby Bjorn and the Gavinator hates enclosed spaces, I was unable to try on the clothes so I just went with a size 6. I've slowly been able to squeeze back into my size 6's since having Grace so I was pretty confident in my size selection. I got home and tried the clothes on and if I do say so myself, the 6's fit fabulously. I little slim but not tight and they totally flattered my 30 year old, mother of two in two years figure. I wore the denim gauchos to work yesterday and I was feeling really good about myself all day. Something about not only wearing a cute little piece of trendy clothing but also fitting into a size 6 just made me feel awesome. Hello, Vanity. Party of one. Your table is now ready.

I know it sounds insane to have my day made over fitting into a size 6 but for 1. I never claimed to not be insane and for 2. it sounds even more insane that when I went to the bathroom and discovered the tag on the inside of the gauchos said size 8, I almost started crying. That's right. Size. 8. My world shattered. I went from feeling cute and sexy to feeling dumpy and gross. I wanted to go home and change clothes. I wanted a girdle. I wanted these size 8's off me! How dare I live a lie for what? Close to 4 hours? I racked my brain to figure it out because I knew the tag on the outside of the gauchos, as well as the hanger, said they were a size 6. They also fit like a size 6. I mean, they were slim. Was the skirt a size 6? I was going to have to check the trash can at home to make sure the tag was a size 6 because if these were really 8's, I was taking them back. Could I take the back without a tag. I was starting to sweat. Could I wait until 5:00 to check the tags in the trash. I could call Lloyd and ask him to check. Yeah, perhaps it was just a mistake. A manufacturing error, if you will.

My inner monologue regarding the shock over wearing size 8 gauchos went on for quite some time. As the day went on, I was able to convince myself it was a manufacturing error and that I really was wearing a size 6 and talked myself down from spilling a vat of spaghetti sauce on me so then they would give me hospital scrubs to wear. I'm over it now. Size 6, size 8... whatevah. I mean, hello, I was a size 14 for a couple of years in college and I didn't care. Granted, I was too drunk and stoned to care but still, I didn't care. I'm just left to wonder why someone like me. Someone who has an awesome husband, two gorgeous kids, and all the blessings in the world, could be reduced to a blubbering mess of insecurity over a tiny blue tag in the back of a pair of denim gauchos. Must make sure the kids never see this side of me.

Oh, and the tags and receipt in the trash? They say size 6.