Surprisingly, the espresso brownie at Starbucks is not that good. Actually it’s awful, heavier than should be, mealy and more carob than chocolate tasting. Burning through yet another writing deadline Friday afternoon, I rationalized having the treat.
I've been “rationalizing” more often lately, however, and have a Halloween costume to fit into. After years of falling in the work week - and my tradition of making a pot of “ghoul”ash, awaiting the five or so kids who come Trick-or-Treating through my mostly adult neighborhood before fishing out and eating all the Milky Way Midnight’s myself - the holiday is on a Friday. A favorite local band (“hard country” they call themselves, although a Ramones set is planned, punks at heart they are) plays at an almost dive that serves a quality filthy martini for a mere $4 (Grey Goose even). And recently-happily-single brother Robert is on board for some long, long overdue fun and worthwhile mingling with the ladies.
I'm not a traditional Halloween costume girl. Past dress-ups include punk rock Mouseketeer sophomore year in college. Wore my actual childhood “Mickey” ears, the real deals, black felt with my name stiched in cursive gold thread on back, oversized and strategically ripped t-shirt, low-slong leather and chain belt over a too short, too tight black mini. White schoolgirl socks to mid-thigh and Mary Jane’s with a heel. One year I wore my old Girl Scout uniform, sash, badges, beret and all (as a fat pre-teen, it fit the merely chunky adult me like a short mini-dress).
This year I’m “Devil With a Blue Dress On”. Found a short, jersey dress in royal blue, originally $124, marked all the way down to $19.99 at Macy’s. It’s a halter with no back, meaning no bra; strapless versus large B’s is more an exercise in yanking up all night than support. However, the size smaller fit beautifully in the waist and hips, tight enough tied around the neck the tits should sit where placed (nipples upward, always). And if I do say so, Betty and Wilma sit perkier these days, the result of hours and hours of pec work. For more sexy than pageant-ey, underneath a tiered black lace petticoat I’ve had since the 1984 Cyndi Lauper costume, courtesy of Contempo Casuals (funny, that crinoline sold back then as outwear. I miss the underpants 80’s). Shiny red vinyl horns and tail, black fishnets and (still to buy) pointy-toed red high heels. May shop Guess for accessories; they have a line of gothic crosses, on black chains with jet stones, that would nestle nicely.
Which brings me back to “rationalizing.” The scale this morning has me on track, just a pound over my lowest weight yet, and I woke early, leaving the feathery down bosom of bed for trainers and an hour of step cardio with weights. Although I wouldn’t say it’s entirely true nothing tastes as good as thin(ner) feels (after all, there are french fries dipped in Ranch dressing in the world), planning and actually pulling off a sexy costume feels…normal. Doable. That wasn't the case when I was an adult size 18. It’s in your head, really, not your ass or your abs. Sophia Loren is quoted as saying, “Sex appeal is 50% what you've got and 50% what people think you've got” and it’s fast become a mantra.
I'll be bat shit crazy when I reach my goal, whatever that is. Haven't decided. I'll know when I get there.