Do you have a yoga pants radius around your home too? Or a sweatpants or underpants radius, or whatever it is that you wear at home?
A yoga pants radius is defined as an area encircling your home where you judge it to be alright to walk around in yoga pants as opposed to normal pants. Like your home, it’s an area where you don’t feel the need to be presentable.
My yoga pants radius has about 300 metres in diameter and includes: the postbox, the bins, the nearest petrol pump station and the nearest supermarket. It also includes a hospital, a pub and a tenement sprawl, none of which I frequent.
I hate changing clothes and I hate the time it takes to make myself presentable, hence I appreciate my cleverness in setting up a yoga pants radius. Also, I’m perfectly entitled to wear yoga pants because a) I actually practise yoga, twice a day, b) I’m skinny, hence can afford to wear tight-fitting clothes in public.
Otherwise I’m meticulous to take care of my appearance before I venture out of my yoga pants radius. I deem it common decency to transform myself from a wild cat lady in a hairband and torn shirt (because cat) into a regular person fit to be seen by others. That much to my defence, in case I need one.
I’ve been to a local academic conference today. I was supposed to present an original paper. I didn’t have the strength to write one, so I read a chapter from my completed dissertation. No one cared, obviously. I was shocked to receive one informed question on the subject of my presentation – it’s not typical that my obscure papers on highly unsavoury topics inspire anyone to ask anything. I also received a lot of questions as to what an “independent researcher” is. It’s a nice term for an unemployed academic. Means that not only you earn nothing for your work, but you pay to be able to work.
The purpose of my attendance at the conference was mostly meant to be therapeutic. A change of routine. There were also some sentimental reasons, a throwback to the period a while ago when I was actually excited about the academic world. In the light of later developments – including that jobs in academia aren’t distributed based on merit and that academics earn about as much as supermarket cashiers – I can’t say I feel quite the same level of excitement anymore. Finally, I went to the conference to flaunt my new “design”, as a colleague aptly put it. I’m obviously extremely conceited and concerned with appearances. I admit to this shameful quality shamelessly.
As I’ve been feeling like I’m dying recently, I thought I might just as well start working my way down my bucket list. Starting with a tattoo (pictured, because I’m conceited) and going on with me having half my head shaved (not pictured, sorry). I was pleased to earn some raised eyebrows and a number of comments on my (lack of) hair. If you’re considering having half your head shaved off, you should know what nobody tells you – half your head will be freezing off. Other than that, I recommend it. I’ll probably shave off the rest soon, so I can sell my hairdryer, save on hair products and save the time it takes to style half my head.
I take my own posts as prompts: when I blogged about chronic pain, I went to see the doctor the next day; when I blogged about tattoo ideas, I made an appointment at a tattoo studio immediately. While the results of my doctors’ appointments are still being determined, the outcome of my other appointment is now finished—see picture above.
Quick answers to the obvious questions:
- Yes, it’s permanent.
- No, it didn’t hurt.
- It’s a cat-shaped semicolon enclosed in CSS curly brackets.
As to long answers, I wanted a tattoo as part of my dealing with my midlife crisis. I borrowed the catty semicolon idea from the internet (I didn’t suspect I’d actually get it when I was saving it on Pinterest) and I added the brackets as my own idea. I didn’t intend to share my design, however primitive, but I’m too pleased with myself not to share it (insert smug emoticon here).
The tattooing part lasted under ten minutes and hurt less than having blood taken for lab tests. I got it with an extra bonus of glamour feel – it felt superstar-ish to sit with a strong halogen light in your face and the air from a fan in your hair. Of course, in combination with the slacks and the lace top in the picture, it doesn’t look too badass. I guess I need more leather. And more tattoos.
I know, I’m weird with my diminutives. I have socksies, shoesies, panties and whatnotsies. On my defence, it’s perfectly normal in my mother tongue to diminutivise what you hate the least. Today I hate my toeless sockies the least of everything that I hate the least, with the exception of the catsie (aka the cat), whom I always hate the least by default. (I have it all figured out.)
I use the toeless socksies for my yogsie practice on cold days. (Yoga is belittled here as yogsie because my limited take on yoga doesn’t deserve its full name.) My feet are as cold as my heart (that is, if I had any heart at all, it would be as cold as my feet) and regular socks are pretty much impossible to exercise in, given that the poses (posies) one strikes in yoga require a firm grasp of the ground with your soles and toes. Now, wait for it, my sockies are also equipped with rubber anti-slip soles. Cool, right? Or rather, warm.
I blogged about my moderate success with weight loss a month ago, but the story apparently hasn’t ended yet. I’ve been wearing size 6 jeans these days, holding on to my waist by the sheer willpower of a wide belt. Well, today I found it necessary to pierce an extra hole in the belt. I almost accidentally committed suicide doing that.
As I checked the result of my work in the mirror, I noticed that the jeans, intended to be skinny, looked like boyfriend jeans on me. That made me angry, and I found it necessary to venture in the shops and get me something of my size. I don’t feel particularly slim, so I didn’t think that my current size would be 4. I was proven wrong. The measure is my favourite Mara-approved shop, where I’ve been buying clothes since the beginning of time, and which I duly visited.
I picked pretty much the only jeans size 4 they had, was rather surprised that I zipped them up no problem and found it quite delightful that they actually fit and didn’t require to be hung on a belt. I asked the shop assistant to remove all price tags and labels on the spot because I wanted to change into them right away because I hated it how my current jeans were too big. (The shop assistant and two customers in the proximity gave me hateful looks.)
I used to wear size 8 from the same shop last year this time. So I guess I’m glad or what. It’s not like it matters, since we’re all going to die anyway. On a positive note (sort of), I can just as well be skinny while dying, right?
Remember the other day when I ordered new shoes online only to test that my renewed payment card works and it did? (Disclaimer: I would’ve ordered the shoes even if I didn’t want to test my card.)
My order arrived in a matter of a few days, but it took me almost a week to pick it up at the post office. Theoretically, the post should have delivered the package, but I doubt that they even bothered trying. It would require effort and doing their job, god forbid.
I tested the new shoes on an extended expedition. They looked smarter in the catalogue than in real life, where they appear vaguely like old lady’s shoes. Since I am becoming an old lady, I thought it about right.
What convinced me for keeping the shoes was the pure awesomeness of how they feel on the feet. The manufacturer sells those with some bombastic labels attached, claiming their comfiness, but of course it didn’t occur to me to take the slogans seriously.
For once, it wasn’t entirely false advertising. I withstood the whole day without major damage to my highly hurt-prone feet. It’s just a shame that one has to pay such an unchristian price for reasonable quality. I wonder if it’s a punishment for me not being a Christian. (But I doubt that.)
I need to compliment myself since no one is going to do it for me: I’m looking okay. I’ve been trying to lose some weight, which has worked. To the obvious question how I did that, I have a very disappointing answer: I eat low-calorie food and obsessively practise yoga. It’s not really worth it, especially not the barbarous diet of veggies, soya, tofu and other disgusting stuff.
On a related note, my hair looks awesome today. To the obvious question how I did that, there is a Murphy’s Law answer: I didn’t try too hard. I didn’t try at all, besides the usual: washing the hair, dry-blowing it, applying some little hair spray—and going out in the billowing wind. I wish I were able to reproduce this success when I actually go somewhere substantial—today’s trip to the supermarket doesn’t count.
I take pride in finding something negative in each positive thing. To flaunt this skill, I have to add how annoying it is that I lost weight because I don’t own any clothes for my current size. All my trousers and skirts are either too big or too small. I fished out an old pair of jeans—so old that it’s the non-skinny type, which I doubt you can even buy these days—put a belt on it and so made it roughly wearable. It looks comical, with the trousers holding on the belt for dear life. I’ll need to go shopping—which, of course, I hate.
I was quite enraged when I contemplated the condition of my Promod coat after its first season. I suspected the knit fabric wouldn’t be too long-lasting, but given that I paid for it half my rent money, I put my trust in the brand’s hands and hoped to be surprised. I was to be surprised for sure, but not very pleasantly. Besides a bad-looking wear to the fabric, the lining of the coat got torn all over the place, as I noticed when the damage was already done.
I considered submitting a warranty claim, but I imagined I’d be told the usual: the coat is a fashion item designed for decoration and is not intended to be worn on a regular basis. (I’m not inventing this, it’s a legitimate excuse one gets often.) With much disgust, I decided to fix the gashes in the lining on my own. There were eight gaping wounds of different sizes and I sewed them as best as I could (which is poorly). The operation took about two hours and the patient is currently recuperating while on life support.
I used to darn socks when I was young and didn’t know any better, and I achieved some degree of proficiency in this useless task. While I don’t mind attempting to do things with my hands, I regularly fail pathetically. One has to owe to me that my stitches, however nasty looking, will last forever (and so far nothing I stitched together fell apart again). The first gap in the coat was sewn particularly terribly, but the final eighth gap already showed some signs of improvement in technique, as illustrated below.
I completed the second round of my 365 Photo Project. It went so smoothly that I hardly noticed. Except one day when I forgot to take a photo because I was busy at a conference – fortunately I made an unwanted snap of a chair instead of the speaker, which I then shamefully posted and pretended it was my artistic intention.
Rest assured and in peace that I’m not going to do the same routine again (at the moment) because what’s the point when I’ve proved, twice, that I can. Why I should probably not repeat the project again (ever) is the sheer blandness of my snaps – it’s just coffee, cats, yoga and the obligatory shoe selfie. Here’s a selection: