Herself: Two estate sales. Nothing left. After lunch took a very long nap. Not good to have the afternoon napped away. Got the mystery shelves dusted and straightened out.
Reading: The newest Evanovitch “Wicked.” Not as wicked as usual.
Balance: The paper and CBS Sunday Morning even if they were reruns.
“Amvets,” I replied.
It’s pretty bad when thrift store searching stirs ones imagination more than anything else. Is it a symptom of my old age. Am I so shrunken that all I think about is more clothes.
Perhaps the vintage of stuff in my closet is what started this urge to get more. Not only am I dowdy looking, but many of my clothes are well over ten years old and out of style. If it were truly vintage, I could enjoy it, but not my stuff. Target T’s with high necks, very tired pants that begin stretching the minute you put them on, and a vast assortment of coats I don’t wear.
Ah, limits. I have only one good dress silk shirt. But I have two pair of good pants that actually fit that I wear on Sunday nights. What for, you ask.
This time around I usher at my Sunday night meeting. In your basic office attire, which I didn’t own any of when I started this series of volunteer gigs, I stand, or sit, by the door and indicate where the empty seats are. I wander around and find the seats too. Then I shush the talkers. Those talkers are very tired of me, but only for two more weeks.
For the first time in years, neither G nor I have volunteered for a specific job. G’s going to be a greeter…standing at the door and saying, “Hi.” No chair of this or that. Perhaps he won’t have to wear a suit on Sundays now, and I can relax my wardrobe. I might greet sitting so no one notices my pants. The thought makes me laugh.