I Feel Pretty

I have to walk the dog. The dog must be walked. This ordinary ordeal is made extra difficult today due to the fact that my world is still blurry around the edges and swaying dizzily from the double shot of Nyquil (no chaser) I downed last night. I enhanced that with a heavy dose of migraine medication and am still waiting, ever so patiently, for something to take effect. But I have been sick for five days now, and I am starting to fear mutiny in the Stancil house if I don't put one foot in front of the other and get it going around here.

Off we go. Walking Cotton is basically like dragging an 18-pound bowling ball on a leash. He is 11-years old, blind, and in no hurry to get through with his walk and return to the rest of his day, which normally consists of waiting on me while I flat iron, makeup, Facebook, and/or run errands. I pull him along, a solid two feet behind me, while coaxing him with my usual, "Cotton, please, walk. Please." and "Come on, let's get going. You need to walk." (Note to self: add "motivational speaker for canines" to resume). He moves forward a total of three inches and pauses to spend the next five full minutes sniffing what looks to me to be a very run-of-the-mill patch of grass.

At this point, you should know I have dressed myself in an insanely chic Hanes sweatshirt in a fetching shade called eggplant, which has given me a strong resemblance to the beloved children's character Barney, the purple dinosaur. The physique I'm rocking can best be attributed to a weeklong diet of double noodle soup and chicken pot pie. It's the anti-Atkins plan, if you will, following that old age to carb load a cold and sugar fix a fever. To that, I've added my well-worn yoga pants onto which I just sneezed and wiped my palms, and accessorized with a high quality pair of fleece gloves I found in a $3.99 bargain bin at Old Navy several years ago. Did I mention I have a wad of Kleenex tucked in my sleeve like my granny used to do?

We shuffle along and, as luck would have it, run smack into the neighborhood Power Walk Posse. Despite the nippy 52-degree temperature, they are dressed fashionably in tennis skirts that reveal legs the size of Popsicle sticks--if Popsicle sticks were shapely and toned to perfection--with matching half-zip shirts and shiny, bouncy pony tails. They greet us, take in the whole scene, and exchange knowing glances and stifled giggles. The on-foot fashionistas stomp on. Cotton and I toddle on through the rest of our route.

An hour later, I have returned to my well-worn spot on the couch and am getting ready for Days of Our Lives and another bowl of double noodle. I tell you this tale for one reason: someone should get something good out of this little adventure. I hope that whatever you are doing/wearing/thinking right now, you suddenly feel much more attractive in comparison. Believe me when I say that you should.

Happy weekend, darlings. You look marvelous!