Thrift Shopping

I had told The Boyfriend several times I needed to go get new jeans. He would look at me dubiously and make comments about belts. It's true, belts can get you through for awhile, but at some point you have to break down and buy pants that fit.

To say I'm on a budget is laughable. I'm over a budget. Every month. This is not the way I like to do things, but every once in awhile you have to be in debt. And so I try to be careful about my spending (since it never ever fits into my "budget" anyways). There are some things you just have to spend money on though: school supplies, food, and (for the sake of this post) I'm going to say clothes that don't fall off your body.

I'd planned on going to the Gap Clearance Store, which is one of my favorite shopping places on earth. They have Gap, Old Navy, and Banana Republic items that are slightly damaged, majorly damaged, returned, that failed to sell on clearance elsewhere, and some things that are brand new and in perfect condition. It's a giant warehouse where you can hunt for bargains. Jeans are usually $10 a pair, occasionally $5 if you can catch the sale. Why spend more?

But why not spend less.

Yesterday I decided to visit the largest and best run thrift store I've been to in my life. I'd only been here once before, and it's a haul to get there, but I was already in the area and decided to give it a go. And oh was it worth it.

I bought six pairs of jeans and two pairs of capris for $15.02 (plus tax). That's less than $2 a pair folks. And they're not ratty old jeans, they're nice! Take, for example, the relatively expensive Lucky Brand jeans that I splurged and spent $3.99 on.

Maybe that extra pocket detailing is why they sell for so much in the stores

I'm not much for name brands but the back pockets are cute and there are clovers printed on the material of the pockets. It's the little things that make me happy.

Another thing that makes me happy? Nine cent jeans. That's right, nine pennies bought me a full length pair of pants.

I'm gonna pop some tags.

"Well they must be hideous or stained or have no button! There have to be holes or maybe they're mom jeans from circa 1992. You can NOT buy nice jeans for nine cents!" you say.

But I scoured over these jeans. Tried them on twice. They look fantastic, fit like a glove, and the zipper totally works. Don't believe me? Check it out...

All nine cents worth.

More cute back pockets.

The receipt goes on to show a few accessories I picked up and a closet's worth of cute new dresses (ranging from $1.99 to $8.99), including a $4.99 Evan-Picone date night dress that the internet tells me retails for $99. All in all it was a worthwhile trip, to say the least.

And for any remaining doubters ("Why didn't you just wear your old jeans with a belt?) I went into the thrift store wearing a heavily belted size 12 jean. I left with two bags full of size 6 jeans and capris for less than you'd pay for a belt at most stores. I'm all for being money-conscious, but I like to do it without my pants falling off.

The No-Muscle Work Out

Since my hospital stay over the summer I've made significant physical progress. Sometimes I even forget I still have limitations. I can go grocery shopping without worrying about collapsing in the middle of the store. I can stand for about an hour and a half or so at a concert (and longer if I really wanted to). As long as I'm not on an uphill grade, I usually do okay for myself.

I finished my physical and occupational therapy about a month ago. Both therapists encouraged me to continue my exercises and to begin working out on my elliptical machine. I felt like many of my daily activities replaced some of my exercises though (ex. going up and down the stairs replaces the exercise where I stand on the top step with one foot and bend that leg until my other heel touches the next step down). It's obvious I'm not back to 100%, but I felt like I'd made huge strides. (And I have, all things considered).

But today I finally found a bit of motivation and hauled my butt onto the elliptical. The boyfriend and I were talking about it yesterday. He encouraged me to get on it, but to know that I'd have to start slow, maybe with just three minutes. Of course I scoffed and said, "Three minutes?!? Geez. I think I can at least manage five!"

Which makes today's performance all the more embarrassing. At the one minute mark I decided five minutes was unreasonable and three was a much more realistic goal. At a minute and thirty seconds I had broken a light sweat and switched the direction I was pedaling. By two minutes I was sucking in air, heart racing, and thinking I might not make it at all! When the timer rolled over to three minutes I wobbled over to the closest cushy surface and collapsed for six minutes. Phew.

So on the downside, I think perhaps I've been too lax in continuing my physical therapy. Building up more time on the elliptical will be a major goal for me now. On the upside, making a workout playlist will be a breeze. One good Meatloaf song will get me through three or four workouts!

Eat Like You Were Dying

There's that country song about living like you're dying. You know the one, where the guy goes sky-diving and bull riding and watches an eagle flying around. He says, "I hope someday you get the chance to live like you were dying."

Well, for one, lots of times once you're *actually* predicted to die in a nearby time frame you feel too cruddy to do things like "go 2.7 seconds on a bull named Fu Man Chu." Honestly I think I feel too cruddy to do that even on days when I'm feeling *great.* I can't say that even after 5 years of cancer I have the desire to climb on a bull's back and see how long it takes him to try to kill me.

It's also tough to live like you're dying when you don't immediately die. Sure everyone would love to quit their job and go take part in some fun activity (or maybe just take a nap). But even on disability there are still (lots) of bills to pay, and laundry to be done, and (in my case) a 12 year old to raise. So I guess everyday life gets in the way of "living like you're dying" life.

I have realized, however, during times I feel especially bad I tend to *eat* like I am dying. I want a milkshake; I have one. Chipotle sounds good; I go there for dinner. I see chocolate milk at the store; I buy it. Health experts will tell you finding happiness in food is unhealthy, but when happiness is in short supply elsewhere I'm happy to take it in the form of buffalo chicken dip.

And it makes me sad for some people who are on VERY restrictive diets. I understand the desire to eat healthily and put good things into your body. But sometimes my soul needs Mexican (chimichanga with the cheese dip please). Now don't get me wrong, I don't make a habit of indulging my cravings constantly. But I think under-indulging, if it's a food you really miss, can be just as bad as over indulging. Self-deprivation has its merits, but every once in awhile everyone needs some chili cheese fries.

Not once have I been laying in a hospital bed, extremely ill, and thought, "gee I wish I'd really taken off that last 10 lbs. My corpse would look so much nicer in a size 10 dress than a 12." Because when you think you might die you don't care about your waistline or your cholesterol, you just wish you'd eaten more peanut butter milkshakes while you had the chance. And gyros. And really good salsa.

This pico de gallo is (almost) to die for.

So I'm not encouraging you to eat your favorite foods every day of the week. And when you do have a treat, I'm not endorsing eating the entire family-sized package of double stuffed Oreos. But I DO think if you have a food that makes you smile inside. That makes your day just a little better. That simply lights up your soul. Eat it. Have some every now and again...and *really* savor it. Don't wolf it down and then wish there were more. Taste every bite. Eat like you were dying, because inevitably one day you will. And while I can't guarantee it, I bet you'll wish you could take a to-go bag with you.

(**I am not in any way qualified to give advice about diets or food. Take my advice with a grain of salt [and a margarita])