Preparations

As of next Tuesday, the Ty-man and I will have been married for 13 years.

Wow.

Thirteen years of bliss, joy, heartache, stress, insanity, happiness, joy, laughs, and tears. In those 13 years we've gained beautiful children, understanding, patience, and weight. It's been a strange and wonderful trip, this marriage thing, and we're lucky to be on it together.

For the first time in 10 years, we're taking an honest-to-God vacation on our anniversary. For our third anniversary, we hit all the Florida high spots. We had vowed, at one time, to return to our honeymoon destination (Seattle) for our 10th. Alas, I was large with children. This year is different because we're headed to Antigua from which we felt the pull of the Caribbean, remembered the lure of the sand, and heard the siren song of an all-inclusive resort with endless alcoholic beverages.

You guessed it. Drunken anniversary sex with no kids to interrupt us. Woo hoo!

So, I found out that Sandals is like a cruise on land. "Cruise on land" literally translates to "dress your ass up for dinners." Um, yeah hi. I'd like to introduce myself. I'm Heather, a mom of three, and my wardrobe consists of jeans, shorts, skorts (Mother of Christ), and 20 Old Navy t-shirts in varying colors, Crocs, and mommy-hair that is never styled. And you want me to dress up every night? For dinner? With make-up, decent hair, and a dress?

Mother. Puss. Bucket.

You all know I bought a dress on Sunday. That's one dress. I still have six more outfits to go and a limited budget 'cause this trip has broken the CMG bank. So, off I went, digging into the disaster that is my closet, looking for something that will pass for Sure, I'm a stylish and reasonably fashionable woman who does this everyday and isn't at all concerned with her ever-widening ass or her flabby upper arms. Definitely.

Allow me to share with you my inner closet-searching monologue.

OK, bought this dress two years ago. It's a size four. Will it fit. YES! If I don't wear a bra and if I suck in my gut. With a bra, it's not going to zip. OK, no bra means nipples. Remember to pack band-aids for that. Now. How about these pants with that top. Oh, sweet baby Jesus. Why is that top in here?!? It's a size 2. Only if I shave the boobs off and wear a corset. These crop pants? Yeah, they scream, "Somebody! Please! Spit-up on me!" What about these heels with those trousers. Oh, God. It looks like I'm trying too hard. Wait, I am trying too hard. I suppose it's decent.

As you can guess, this went on for 90 minutes and I can tell you that my pale, flabby butt and arms managed to find seven, count 'em, seven proper dress-up-for-dinner clothes for this trip.

I'm spent. Where's the chocolate?