Keepin’ It Classy

I can’t breathe. Everytime I try to inhale deeply, I feel constrained. It’s making me panicky. I’m breaking out into a cold sweat and the lack of oxygen is making me a little lightheaded. My lungs feel compressed, gripped, like they are slowly and painfully being squeezed together by a vice or a noose or…my belt.

Wait. This doesn’t sound normal. I bet this doesn’t happen to you, does it? Panic-inducing breathing problems brought on because that stylish skinny belt wrapped around your waist is somehow cutting off your airway? That’s just some of my crazy.

It begins like this: I  wake up in the morning after a good night of sleep, and I’m feeling the slimmest I’ll feel all day. The food slate has been wiped clean, there’s been 8 blissful hours of digestion going on, and things seem relatively flat and un-bulgey. So I figure I’ll cinch that belt around my waist to try and add some curves to a body that looks more like a 12 year old boy than a 32 year old woman—more Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory than Sophia Vergara.


I hold my breath while threading the buckle into the loop, (trying not to think of the Culver’s double cheeseburger and fried cheese curds I had for lunch yesterday), seeing what hole I’ll be able to reach. It’s sad, I realize this, feeling at competition with a belt. Hoping I’ll be able to mouth-off at it when reaching the inner circle of notches saying “That’s right! Take that, generic mass-market belt Biatches, I’m in it to win it!” Then I breeze out the door feeling fit and fine, off to start a wonderful day.

Things first start to go downhill once I reach the car. This teeny cinched belt was MUCH more meant for standing then sitting, and now that I’m curled into my munchkin Ford Focus, I’m feeling a lot less slender than 10 minutes ago.

Then I arrive to work and it’s time to eat breakfast. Sitting and pumping food into my belly is also not conducive to tummy restraining devices. Neither are unseasonably early bowls of Halloween candy that seem to tempt me at every turn. Come 3pm I’m fidgeting in my chair trying to find the most comfortable position, and somehow I’ve completely forgotten that the nucleus of this problem is a .25” leather band. I’m stressing out – people outside my office can probably hear me huffing loudly in attempt to grab a full breath – when it suddenly occurs to me that all I have to do is loosen my belt. Or even better, take it off completely.

The relief is immediate. I splooge (I want you to know that spell-check didn’t even underline that made up word) into my chair as a puddle of mushy, oozing, relieved goodness. Not even caring if someone wonders what happened to part of my outfit from earlier that day, or whether I look like the Wicked Witch melting into a hazy abyss.

Really, this is just one of the many things about me that starts out with the very best intentions of classiness, and ends up crashing and burning into a smoldering pile of oh-so-much-trashiness.

Another shining example would be my illustrious kleenex and napkin debate.

In our house, you will rarely, if ever, find actual kleenex or napkins in our cupboards or bathrooms or bedside tables. Where is the need for them when you have paper towels and toilet paper?

I wouldn’t claim to be a terribly proactive save-the-earth kind of girl. I buy fancy organic cleaning products more because they smell delicious then because they lack toxic ingredients. We have a drawer in our kitchen overstuffed with hand towels, and at any given time we’ll be simultaneously using three of those, in addition to a roll of paper towels, for various tasks. So the decision to allow certain paper products to do double duty is, sadly, not a politically correct one. Just laziness at it’s best.

The other day I was dreamily e-shopping on Anthropologie (be still, my heart) and sent my sister a text out of the blue that said:

“I think I want to start collecting pretty placemats.”

Her response.

“Fun–that can be your thing!”

Like how she decided one day that collecting kaleidoscopes was going to be her “thing.” Or how collecting empty plastic water and Gatorade bottles in the back of his car seems to be my husbands “thing.”

So I’ll start collecting lovely, colorful placemats. And I’ll design my entire meal around the theme of their pattern, and create a magnificent tablescape all Martha Stewart style with repurposed sticks and calligraphed placecards. Like the one time I cooked a meal for 13 girls in Chicago where I bought bright fabric for a tablecloth and planted little ceramic pots of grass for a centerpiece and served parchment wrapped sea bass and lemon infused noodles. YES! Yes I have done this, I WILL do this! And I’ll use paper towels as my napkins. So what?

I seriously didn’t realize this was an issue until we moved away to Dallas and noticed that any time my mother or mother-in-law visited and went shopping for us, they returned home with a huge package of napkins and several boxes of kleenex. I guess adults don’t find it charming to seek out a roll of toilet paper when they need to blow their noses, or using oversized paper towels when they need to wipe their hands. It was a not so subtle way to remind us that we were also grownups, no longer living a college or nearly post-college lifestyle, and should join the real world of proper household accessories.

Considering somewhere along the way my child has become fastidious during mealtime and is always demanding “a napkin!” with which to wipe his grubby paws, (yet he somehow could care less that his cherub face is smeared ear to ear with spaghetti sauce – just get his hands clean for fucks sake!), I guess we’ll have to follow suit and start stocking them in the house.

Nobody is perfect, and I certainly don’t hold myself to such high standards that I expect my whole world, from closet to cupboard, to be Pinterest perfect. It’s just some of the more egregious errors in class that gnaw at my conscious. Like the suffocating belt issue, or lack of napkins, or when I consider licking clean my food utensils at work and putting them back in my drawer an adequate substitute to antibacterial soap and a dishwasher.

I’d ask you to please not judge me, but it’s ok. Go ahead. I’m sure I’d be overly critical if I saw someone else filling up the same water bottle on their desk that hadn’t been taken home and cleaned in several months, (it’s just water! how does that get dirty??).

My one request is that, if you ever happen upon me looking red faced, irritated, awkwardly trying to take in a breath while sitting at my desk, please just kindly point out that perhaps I should loosen my belt.