I AM MORPHING INTO A KARDASHIAN

Jared came early this morning to wash the exterior windows, skylights, and clean the gutters.

Outside windows cleaned this morning.

Skylights cleaned ... no more ashy smut cutting into the view; and gutters were cleared, too.

After he finished, and left … I decided to drive to Warrenton, Oregon, to return some of the clothing items I had bought last Thursday.

Back to Warrenton ...

All I want is a regular pair of jeans!

Apparently, I am morphing into a kardashian.

Not in attitude, lifestyle, finances, or neighborhood.

Mostly in my {bodacious curves}.

Without “enhancement” butt cushioned pants, or silicone breast implants.

My curves are all natural.

I am a curvy, full-figured woman.

It can be a bit much for my small frame.

Finding clothes that fit “all parts of me at the same time” is tricky.

Purchasing clothes that fit me in this demonrat and rhinorepub political nightmare is a continual rollercoaster of buying/bringing home … trying on/returning to store to refund/replace.

Every damned thing is made in china or the Philippines … and sized to fit straight-as-a-board-midgets.

I’m petite – but I am also a mature woman with a mature figure.

I have mature breasts; my breasts have nursed a baby, and ‘blossomed’ under 44 years of continual (and welcome 😉) manhandling loving ministrations. They’re no longer what they used to be. 

I have hips that have ushered life into this world; my hips will never again look like those airbrushed models who “were 300 pounds following childbirth – and now looking like 17 again, after a gym membership”. I'm calling BULLSHIT on the bullshit hype. My hips are what they are. 

I have mature thighs; even with the constant 4- to 5-mile hikes, age and genetics gets their hooks into everyone. My thighs are still nice – given my age and curvy genetic pool; but, they are now 64-year-old thighs … loooong past the boyish, coltish 20-year old’s designers cater to. 

And at 64, I also have a mature ass; and I’ll leave that ‘right there’. No explanation is needed.

I have lost a significant amount of weight with the onset of widowhood 28 months ago; but I’ve also aged 10 years, too, in that short period of time (from 61 to 64). Stress ages the body … and it is beginning to show.

Bob’s love kept Spring in my life – now my life feels the stress of his physical absence in it.

Aging is taking its toll; and cashing in on my gene pool DNA (my mother's contribution to how my aging shape is shaping up).

When I see my reflection in the mirror, all I see looking back at me as I swivel to view all angles, is that I am beginning to look like a dwarfed kris kardashian (she has smaller breasts that I do, but there is a definite similarity in the ass and thighs).

But I don’t have a seamstress at hand to make beautifully tailored clothing for me that actually fits me in all the places the clothing I am constantly returning, does not.

The clothes I had before widowhood needs replacing: most no longer fit, and some are threadbare. I’m not indulging in spending sprees – I really need new clothes … and stores are only stocking clothing for underdeveloped teenagers.

Apparently, the power-hungry politician’s intent on isolating “the elderly for their own good” also think we should be naked, as well: as the only business they are encouraging are with countries that not only hate Americans, but make clothes for unrealistic doll sized bodies.

It’s ridiculous as well as frustrating. 

After I got back home tonight, and tried things on; I was happy to see that there are only 3 things that have to go back to Warrenton next week – possibly Monday, as it will be raining here through the weekend.

I like the drive, and I am learning the route. But making the 3-hour return drive every other day is no longer fun.

Hopefully, there will be no more return trips after Monday.

And maybe … maybe … I will find those illusive jeans I am still searching for 😉