Hoochie Poochie

This is indeed a photo of a pooch in pink, but it is not exactly the hoochie poochie I was thinking about when considering the topic for today's blog. (How can you not love a pooch in pink?) Actually, both pooches took part in today's Breast Cancer Awareness walk, so this is about pooch squared. (The walk, by the way, was inspirational and makes me feel very shallow for what I am about to bitch about. More about the walk in a dot.) The pooch I was thinking about is my newly developing "perimenopausal pooch," the pooch of which gives away my age and makes it impossible for me to wear my old jeans.

I have been pooch-ified.

This is not really a good or bad thing--it is a fact. Take a women my age and you will see that the majority of us have been pooch-ified. Skinny or not, the pooch is a hormonal gift of which we really can't say no. It's not about being overweight or out of shape or anything like that. It is what it is. It's a pooch and it says, "you are in your late 40's and you are running out of eggs. Talk to the pooch, perimenopausal mama!"

So, my pooch and this pooch went walking today.

Last night, the wife and I went jeans shopping, as I have no jeans that fit...and, since I can now wear jeans to work (as I am at my new-old job and no longer at the job of which I do not speak--praise the baby Jesus!), you bet your bippy that I am going to wear jeans. Problem is that there is little more depressing in life than going jeans shopping.

Jeans are unforgiving. They laugh in your face.

I do not like jeans shopping. I'd rather poke my eyes out. Not only do you have to worry about things like, "are these things going to shrink? how much are they going to shrink?" you have to figure out what KIND of jeans you need. There are so many shapes and kinds and brands and colors and sizes. I remember when there were only two kind of jeans: Levi's and disco jeans. That was it. You either wore your Levi's (before they became button down flies--this was a simpler, gentler time) or you wore your waist-high disco jeans. I don't know what the hell brand or kind to buy. I know to stay FAR away from the skinny jeans. I know to stay out of the Juniors section. I know I don't want "sits at the waist" jeans. I don't know if I want stretch kind or dark kind or ripped kind or low-rise, mid-rise, or high waist kind.

I am jeans ignorant. I mean, the last time I had to buy jeans, I was two sizes smaller and wearing the really low riders from a teeny bopper store.

I thought about having the wife just hand me jeans while I was in the fitting room, not showing me the sizes or talking about the brands....I'd just try on anything she handed me and just go by what fit and what didn't....those numbers and brand names mess with my mind. It's shallow, I know. In the end, I muttered and puttered and whined, picking out all sorts of jeans to try on, looking at the tags and fighting back the angst.

Suffice it to say, I got some new jeans which are big enough to house my pooch.

I am proud to say that I did not cry once while being tortured by jeans shopping.

Alas, I did not get Levi's, even tho MJagger says Ellen wears them every day and even tho I have a fond history with them. I love Ellen's wardrobe and would love to copy her style, but it is going to have to be without the Levi's. I looked ridiculous.....and, that's only when I could actually zip the things. Levi's did nothing for me or my pooch. I went with the "old lady jeans" from a department store. At least they don't involve an elastic waist.

I have news for my pooch: you are big enough and I'm not giving you any latitude to get bigger, hormones be damned. I only have so much money for new jeans, hoochie poochie, so be warned. Try to get bigger and I'm gonna sit-up and crunch you right off the planet.

Well, I'll sit-up and crunch after I get done eating this DQ Blizzard.

Back to the walk. I don't know how many of you remember Harvey from 2006, but I walked in her memory today.

Side note: When done reading this entry, why not go back and read about Harvey: http://addiwp.blogspot.com/2006/06/not-every-day-in-addiverse-is-filled.html
-and- http://addiwp.blogspot.com/2006/06/godspeed-harvey-and-now-my-therapy.html

Our team, Pink Pride, was in honor of a very much alive and very amazing friend who is beating cancer like there is no tomorrow, so technically I was walking WITH her and FOR Harvey. I am proud to say that Harvey made it the whole four miles without stopping to smoke a cigarette. (Harvey would like that I said that.) She strolled along, safely tucked in my hat so she could have a good view of the giant crowd. (She would have HATED the crowd.) I had planned on keeping her safely in my pocket for the duration of the walk but then decided it was too nice of a day to be stuck in someone's coat. I will be sending photos to her mom who lives on the West Coast so she can know that Harvey is still near and dear to my heart and that Harvey had a very nice walk with thousands of supportive, caring friends today.

The breast cancer walk really is an overwhelming thing. You cannot imagine how many people take part--thousands upon thousands. It is overwhelming on many accounts--the actual number of people taking part, the actual number of people affected by breast cancer, the actual number of survivors, the magnitude of the disease, the strength of the survivors, the monies that need to be raised. We all know people who have been diagnosed with breast cancer, who have had treatment for breast cancer, who have beaten beast cancer, who weren't able to slap that breast cancer into shape.

Puts whining about jeans into perspective.

As you can imagine, there were signs and balloons and hats and t-shirts and ribbons and music. Those are the things you can see in the photos I took and those are the things you will see in the photos they'll publish in tomorrow's paper. Much more importantly, there was love and friendship and camaraderie and support and hope. Those are the things you cannot see in the photos, but trust me when I say those things were "visible" to those of us in attendance.

Our team of 50 sported pink hand-knitted hats (complete with tassels), made by the partner of the team captain. FIFTY friggin' hats! That's a lot of knitting--1.5 hours per hat. She must have been knitting every waking moment--while on the toilet, while making dinner, while driving to work--that's 75 hours of knitting! She must have callouses on her little knitting hands. Thank you, knitter grrrrrl! Please know that I like my hat so much that I am going to wear it to church tomorrow.

You know, the more I wear the hat, the less people will notice I have a pooch.

Monday, I will wear my new jeans to work. I'll put Harvey back into the photo frame on my desk. I will celebrate our friend's victory over this disease. I'll celebrate Harvey's memory and my poochiness. Every time I have a shallow thought about my jeans, I will rub my gratitude tattoo, I'll look at that photo, I'll laugh about those hats and I'll celebrate all the wonderful things in my life. I'll kiss my dogs and kiss my wife. I'll be grateful to have a job so I can buy new jeans.

Take that, pooch. You've got nuthin' on me.
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