Really, Stevie Nicks and I have nothing in common.

I am starting this past my bedtime, one imposed by my dogs who, at the appointed hour, jump up and go through an elaborate doggy pantomime of dragging themselves in exhaustion to bed. Since I am the lone person in the house four out of seven nights, they are very comforting. I doubt that they would be vicious protectors in a pinch, but they put on a good vocal act when they hear a raccoon on the porch.

Tomorrow will be the first day since I started my morning walks that I will not be able to burst from my driveway, walking stick in hand, to greet the day. I have my writers' group tomorrow at 10, and since I have to leave home at 8:30 for the hour plus drive, building in extra time to get coffee and maybe  tilt the seat back for a fifteen minute rest at some point, there is no walking time. As it gets hotter day by day, I know that afternoon walks will be out of the question, soon if not already.

I have found myself in the interesting position lately, of having nothing to wear.  I mean that quite literally. As I creep closer to the "fifty pounds lost" mark, I find I can't really fake it with anything I own. The idea seems so attractive. Lose weight, buy a new wardrobe. It doesn't quite work that way.  For one thing, a new wardrobe from the skin out costs a lot of money. I want to be slender, not broke. Also, since I am nowhere near my final weight loss goal, these clothes shall also be too large soon, and will have to be shucked for a smaller size. That has sort of a "good news/bad news" quality. My new jeans, which I liked quite a lot and  spent too much on were too big two weeks after I bought them. Now I have one pair of khakis which I can actually wear out of the house, and their days are numbered.

I have resurrected several broomstick skirts from what my daughter calls my "Stevie Nicks period."
Although when Stevie Nicks was slithering about the stage in her cobwebby black gowns,with her long blonde tendrils sliding over her shoulders, my cohorts and I were wearing Villager shirtwaists and Capezio flats, my daughter refers more to my middle aged discovery of the forgiving nature of those long skirts. I have not been a skirt person for most of my adult life, tending to awkwardly step on trailing hems and cause general bodily harm to myself and others, but here goes nothin.'