I'm not certain why.
Perhaps because in not so many days I'll really, truly be in my thirties as opposed to thirty, or because we're expecting that slew of house guests any day now and I've come to the realization that to pass this place off as remotely home-y and/or cozy I should probably unpack (What? We've only been here a year and a half? What's the rush?), or because my ever so slightly more controlled guzzling of vino (so that my si-sis can keep her liver in one piece a while longer) has seen the pounds come off (had it been beer, I would have effectively been on the 'man diet'), or because I was procrastinating with a certain photo-job that I'm now desperately bringing to a close as the deadline looms uncomfortably and I find myself wishing I could take half of the photos over with a polarizing filter. And someone else's skills.
To tell you the truth, I don't have any idea why.
But I do know one thing.
I'm one lucky woman.
Behold.
The outfit I wore when I met el Grande Vikingo (a.k.a. the Hubs) for the first time ever:
Yes, those are glued on sequins on pink animal print, and that is indeed pfleather. And no, I was never employed as a stripper or one of those coyote-ugly chicks. I wore that of my own free will. I did. In fact, I done brought it in that outfit.
Yah.
And we wont even mention the freakishly big woolen sweater that covered half of my face that I was wearing the second time that I met the big V. Or the giant Mickey Mouse T-shirt I insisted on wearing to bed the night I moved in with him (also known as the third time ever I met him) that I'd purchased as a souvenir from Disney World in 1994. Silver lining to that shirt is, I see it now, that I was unable to locate the matching silk boxers.
Thank Z for missing silk boxers. Those might have been the tipping point.
