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Message Received

speed queen

O.K. already - I hear what you're saying.

Things are progressing well with the new washer. We discovered the reason big retailers don’t sell Speed Queen is because the manufacturer warranty is better than what most retailers offer as an extended warranty, which is where the box stores make a lot of money. I guess I’m quite happy with the little work horse we chose, and it feels good that we helped a local family-run business. It was a smart choice.

That’s all fine and good, except I think Little Ms. Speed Queen is trying to tell me something.

I blogged the other day about the fact I decided it was in my best interest to close my personal clothes boutique after I lost weight. While this is true, I confessed the other day about the two pairs of pants that offer a bit of wiggle room – I just have a hard time parting with them. One pair is plaid, the other paisley, both prints I would have never dreamed wearing 100 pounds ago.

I almost donated them at the end of last winter – they were baggy then, but I tucked them away, just in case. I even admit I was relieved when I saw them a week ago as I pulled out my fall clothes. Would they buy me a little extra time? From what? What was I thinking? I gotta throw that fat girl and all her bad ideas down the stairs once and for all, geez.

Anyway, I wore the paisley cords the other day, which don’t have nearly as much wiggle room as I remembered, and then tossed them in the wash. I pulled them out and there was this huge hole in the crotch. I admit the flu fog still landed me in a hazy place when I did laundry the other day, but holy cow, someone tell me that my arse wasn’t hanging out when I was wearing them? I think I would have noticed a breeze like that. Wouldn’t I?

I’m pretty sure it happened in the wash, but how does one completely shred the hind end of her pants in a washing machine? Maybe my new washer not only elevated me to the luckiest girl in the world, but she offers advice too. Is she the only one brave enough to call attention to what I’ve been denying for the past month?

Whether someone or something is looking after me, or my dimply bum has pushed too hard against the seams of my pants to weaken them enough for the mother of all blowouts, I’m now forced to confront the idea that I’ve been indulging a bit much.

I think this is all the only sign I need, thank you very much.


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