Hot

I am hot.

I do not mean because of the weather, although that's only to be expected when the high today is predicted to be close to 100.

I do not mean in the twenty-first century slang sense (would that be "hawt?").  No, I have no illusions about my "hotness" in that realm--although the Hubster seems to think I'm "all that," which is all that matters.  Besides, if I had illusions about "hawtness," I'd probably feel compelled to do something like wearing makeup.  Or getting my nails done.  Or doing...something...with my hair (OK, I had a perm once, but it was the '80's, after all).  And if I had illusions of "hawtness" I certainly would do something about the way I dress.

Usually, my attire looks like I found it at the intersection of "whatever is clean and fits" and "I forgot to match up my Garanimals tags this morning."  But I think I outdid myself on my "recovery" bike ride today.

Yes, that's an orange shirt, pink socks, and red shoes.

That was probably bad enough, but then it got worse.  I had changed my shorts to do some yoga, when the dog decided she needed to go out.  Since we got about 3 inches of rain last night and the back half of our 10 acres is somewhat low-lying, I decided I needed Serious Boots.

So I ended up with this:

Trust me, it looked even more impressive when filled out with chunky Minnesota-pale parts...

I'm assuming that my attire had nothing to do with the fact that the dog spent her whole time outside eating grass to try to make herself throw up.  Dogs are color-blind, right?

In my defense, I think I got my fashion sense from my parents.  Both somewhat iconoclastic free spirits, they wear what they damn well feel like.  My dad has 2 criteria for pants: They must fit.  They must cost less than $5.  When my sister and I were in high school my dad had a great pair of pants that met these criteria--corduroy pants made of big, bright, blue and green squares.  Those pants became the unofficial mascot of our high school girls'cross-country team (at meets, all the girls would anxiously scan the horizon for "Mr. Anderson's Pants," and would breathe a sigh of relief when my dad strode into view).  I'm pleased to report that, even at 16 and 18, my sister and I were mature enough (or geeky enough) to not be embarrassed by this, but rather to be pleased that our parents attended all of our sporting events, and that my dad had cool pants.

And my mom? Well, here's a picture of my parents arriving at our cabin for the 50th anniversary dinner my sister and I and our husbands made for them last summer:

Yes, she is wearing leopard-print leggings, and her shirt does, indeed, say "Nobody Listens to Me Until I Fart"

And here she is two months later, at her 70th birthday party, showing off her "Pain in the Rear" shorts

I want to be like my parents when I grow up.

So anyway, where was I?  (This, by the way, is why I like blogging so much...I can babble on, roaming from tangent to tangent, and I don't have to put up with any rolled eyes or exasperated sighs.  And best of all, when I completely forget my original point, I can scroll back up through the post and find it! )

Ah, yes....hot.  I simply meant that, the past two days, I have felt hot.  Not hot because it's hot out, just...hot. My skin feels hot from the inside, like it's slightly sunburned (but it's not).  I remember feeling this when I first got on thyroid meds last spring--and shortly thereafter, the meds started to take effect and my skating switched from "sucking" back to "fast."

I'm hoping the hotness is a prelude to something good.