Monday, October 03, 2005

Walkin', Walkin', Walkin' ...

(As in "Rollin', Rollin' Rollin' " from "Rawhide.")

Two weeks from tomorrow, I'm going to see Paul McCartney.

Normally, I don't shop if I can avoid it. I don't like it. When you're tall – and I'm tall – it's just too depressing. Either nothing fits right or it costs a kazillion dollars. But for Sir Paul, I knew I needed some new duds. A new dud, specifically. And no, I'm not talking about a man! (Badump bump! Goodnight, everybody! I'm here all week! Try the veal!)

I thought to myself, "You need a velvet jacket." And I went online and searched, preshopping if you will, and found a lovely raspberry-colored number. I printed out the picture and stuck it to my closet door as inspiration.

And then one day, walking through Carson's on the way back to my car, something caught my eye. Very few things on a hanger make me change my course, but change my course I did.

Oh. It was even cooler up close. The first thing I thought was, "I love this jacket." And the second thing I thought was, "Dave would love this jacket." (Not that I bought it because of him.) (Dave, I believe I've mentioned, is the guy I gave my McCartnety tickets to. L.A. Dave, in the most awesome display of friendship ever, bought a McCartney ticket and sent it to me, which made me cry. I'm used to being the gesturer, not the gesturee.)

Of course, the color I wanted wasn't there in my size. I could have had the icky green one (I love green, but some greens are icky, and this one was), but not the coveted color.

I looked downtown. No jacket. I returned to my local Carson's. Still none in my size. I took one to the cash register and asked the lovely saleswoman (really, she was lovely; she looked like Laci Peterson, though I didn't tell her that) if we could order it in my size and she was happy to help. She found one at another store and a few days later, the FedEx man dropped it off at my door.

Thing is, I bought this jacket knowing it would be a little too snug in the arms. I may have mentioned, I have Oprah arms. (Really, I have my grandmother's arms, but you have no frame of reference for that comparison.) No matter how fit I get, the upper-arm flab stubbornly stays put. No, really. I could stir a breeze by waving.

And so, with the concert just two weeks away, I'm kicking it into high gear, eating the somewhat-boring food, and walking my butt off (which is working, because it's getting smaller; I looked today, and it no longer appears as though you can set a beer on it).

I've driven out some of the routes to measure them, so I know that my first walk this morning was 2.2 miles, and the second one (to mom's house, to do a favor) was 2 miles, and the third one (to the bank and post office) was another 2 miles.

And I was thinking to myself, on the way home from the bank and post office, that maybe I'm getting a little obsessive about this. And then I thought, "Nah, not obsessive. Just committed."

Rarely have I been this committed to anything in my life, let alone an item of clothing.

But it's just that cool.

I'll ask Dave to bring his digital camera the night of the show and have him snap a shot of it. Of us, maybe. And post it online, if the photo-posting feature will behave and not crash my browser, like it usually does.

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