Almost daily outfit of the day: I'm back, y'all. 10.31.11

Thrifted J Crew denim jacket; Gap Outlet cargos; thrifted Gap Kids button-down; Dolce Vita suede wedges

DUDES. This is the HOTTEST OUTFIT EVER, amirite???






Bam. I just lied to you. I TOTALLY know I look like crap. This is far from my most inspired outfit. My eleven year-old could come up with something more fabulous, and she's a tomboy who has to be cajoled into brushing her hair . In addition, I'm pale. I'm pasty. My smile is forced. I look wiped out. And let's not even talk about my hair. But in my defense, this is the first outfit I've worn in a week that didn't include sweatpants and slippers. I'm not accessorizing with a clutch filled with Kleenex. And I'm not sprawled in a fetal position on my couch, hacking into a tissue and wailing that I am never, ever going to feel better.

People, pneumonia is nothing to joke about. There were moments in the last week when I was convinced, absolutely convinced, that I was GOING TO DIE. I pictured my husband coming home from work and finding my cold, lifeless body crumpled on the ground, kind of like that scene in Steel Magnolias when Dylan McDermott discovers poor sickly Julia Roberts collapsed on the stairs, her hand curled around the phone and a bubbling pot of spaghetti sauce boiling over on the stove and her beautiful, beautiful blue-eyed son wailing next to her, desperately pleading for her to just GET UP and take him trick-or-treating. (Just try to deny that this isn't the very saddest scene you've ever watched in a movie. Go ahead. I'll wait.)

I was NOT going to be Julia Roberts. No siree. So I sent prayers to the gods for recovery in return for things I was going to do once I got better, the kind of desperate promises you can only make when you're deep in the throes of illness. Such as, from now on, I'm going to take my vitamins. I'm going to get 8 hours of sleep every night. I'm going to work out every day, and avoid trans fats, and floss twice a day and watch more PBS and maybe even add some charity work because, what the hell, it can't hurt.

YEAH, I can feel your side-eye from here.

So bear with me here. Things could be a lot worse. This could be a photo of me hacking into a tissue. Be grateful that it isn't.


(I have an awesome giveaway coming tomorrow, just to thank you all for not deserting me during Pneumoina Germpocalypse 2011. Say tuned.)