I think I mentioned didn’t I, that I was going away for the weekend with my mum? We’ve rented a little cottage near the sea, just for a few nights and when I went up to help her pack her bag last night she was almost beside herself…she does giddy almost as well as I do. To be fair, I think she’s just excited about spending four days with Charlie dog, who she utterly adores, but she doesn’t seem to mind that I’m tagging along too.
Mum’s packing was easy. She only has a tiny wardrobe, housing a few carefully selected clothes. My packing on the other hand, is proving more difficult, and it boils down to the fact that there’s just too much choice in my wardrobe these days. My first cut would have kept me comfortably clothed for a month, so I fannied around for ages putting things back and trying to second-guess what the weather’s going to do so I could pack just the right amount of stuff. Yeah, epic fail on that front by the way, my bags are stuffed to bursting point and anyone would think I’m about to leave home.
I’ll tell you what though, how much more enjoyable is it, packing for a trip when you’re excited to wear the things you’re taking with you? I know I won’t wear half the things I’ve packed but choosing which ones to leave behind is impossible because I want to wear them all so I’m unashamedly dragging a ridiculously large suitcase with me because you know what, I’ve earned the right to revel in these clothes. I’ll try them all on and do a fashion show for my mum every morning and then decide what to wear.
I have this wonderfully romanticised picture in my head, of me, gliding along the promenade with the gentle sea breeze ruffling my hair, looking so stylish in my new duds that folk take a moment from their busy day to just admire the look. Come on, that’s never going to happen. I’m more likely to be battered by the hoolie blowing off the east coast, which will whip my hair into a frenzy as I try to control a hyper-excited cocker spaniel and prevent my tiny octogenarian mum from blowing down the beach.
It doesn’t matter, does it? Whether anyone notices I look nice or not, I’ll feel nice. I’m about to go work out, and as I grit my teeth all the way through my muffin tops and bingo wings class, I’ll be thinking about those size eighteen linen pants hanging on the outside of my wardrobe. For my friends in the States, that’s a fourteen in your neck of the woods…I know, right? I’m five dress sizes down from where I started. I don’t care that there’s barely room to squeeze out a trump once I’ve put them on…they fasten, and I can still breathe if I sit down so as far as I’m concerned, they fit.
I hope you all have a wonderful Easter. Keep your eye on the Facebook page for postcards from the East Coast, and I’ll see you on the other side 🙂
