Day 13 or The Return to Fat Pants

Notes on Day 13, March 8th, Belorado to Ages



Morning is definitely my favorite time to walk. The clouds in the early hours are so high and luminous, with voluminous grey underbellies. The light slices through from above, making its way to the vineyards. I think that the vineyards must be a sight to see in the autumn, their vines tied carefully in uniform espaliers and heavy with fruit.



It is good to be back in the higher elevations again too. Today and tomorrow are climb days. The views of the mountains are spectacular from up here.



And either I´ve finally gotten used to the weight of my pack or this heifer has lost a little weight! I may even fit back into my fat jeans when I get home! Notice I said fat jeans, not skinny jeans. No, I am still several caminos away from my skinny jeans. See, there comes a point at which as a woman is gaining weight and she can no longer fit into each successively larger size of jeans, that she has a mental 404 and simply refuses to buy the next size up. From this point on the only pants she buys are black sweat pants.

Last fall my sister-in-law took me shopping for jeans. MaryLynn is, for all intents and purposes, my sister. I don´t have one, and I always wanted one, and for that I can only blame my parents. And no offense to my brother, whom I adore, but I doubt a sister would have gotten the bright idea to ¨play Houdini¨ and tie me up in a Star Wars sleeping bag and stuff me in a linen closet at the ripe old age of 6 to see if I could escape. (I did not try to escape; I sat inside that sleeping bag inside that closet and cried and screamed like my fingernails were being torn off).

Anyway, MaryLynn said to me, ¨Keke, I´m taking you shopping. You need to look good now so you feel good now.¨ I guess she must´ve noticed the muffin tops bulging from my hips and the belly bun overlapping the belt buckle on my low rise jeans which I had no business wearing. There was a veritable bakery around my midsection. So she took pity on me and whisked me to Old Navy, the first resort store for cheap but reasonably stylish defcon 1 emergency clothes. And the jeans we bought that day (my fat jeans) definitely bought me a few more months until I eventually exploded out of those and they too were given over for the black sweats.

It was a simple thing for her to do really, take me shopping. But she took me at a time when my depression was still so dimming that I don´t think I could´ve bought a pair of socks for myself. Well, maybe a pair of black sweat pants. But I was so grateful for her at the time. She made it possible for me to go outside without feeling like a completely obese sprocket, and for that I am so thankful to her.

So yes, I think I may even get back into those Old Navy denims again when I get home, and that will feel good. That is unless I keep diving into pastelerias (pastry shops) like they were going extinct.



I am also the MASTER!!!...of peeing outdoors. After the fifth time I´ve gotten the hang of this. See, being able to pee comfortably outdoors entails being a good location scout. ¨Location, location, location,¨ as they say in real estate. Is there a nice wide rock for you to plop your wide ass on and hang it off the back? Even better, is there another rock or tree nearby to help brace yourself? Is the spot relatively private? Meaning the N-120 highway is at least 200 meters away and none of your other peregrino friends were close behind you on the trail? People, I am learning skilllzzz on this Camino I tell ya.



This afternoon Stinky Julie, Ally and Adrienne caught up with me on the trail and we chatted about their classes, their travels, their post graduation plans. But then somehow we got on the subject of peeing outdoors and I mentioned that I had gotten quite good at it and was a little proud of my skill level when Adrienne promptly announced, ¨Peeing? Hell I just took a dump back there. Hey, it had to be done.¨

And suddenly I felt (and I was surprised to feel this), sheer admiration for her. People, that takes balls!



The Albergue in Ages was a lovey affair. Carlos joined myself and the Middleberry Sisterhood for a home cooked meal of the most lovely garlic soup and tangy pisto (vegetable ragu) for dinner. We talked Camino and feet (Pok made the rounds of feet examinations at dinner), we joked and laughed and drank while Ana Maria, our robust hostess, kept the supply of fresh bread and sangria flowing.

And to boot, Pok looked at one of my big toes last night and pronounced them to be ¨diminishing,¨ meaning healing. The bleeding in the nail bed has subsided and the intense purple has calmed to a lovely magenta if I do say. I asked Pok if he thought my toenails would fall off my big toes. I like how Pok calls it the great toe instead of the big toe. He said no, he didn´t think so. Thank God because I think a nail-less toe would gross me out more than the some of the toilets I´ve seen lately.