“Clothes are never a frivolity: they always mean something.” ~James Laver
A few weeks ago, I had scheduled myself to attend a Pimp Ball for a friend’s birthday. I already knew what to do with the hair (When I take a pick to it, I look like my avatar of Pam) but it was the clothing that got me. While this may be shocking to some, I’m not really the…umm… ‘ho’ type. I have nothing that even remotely resemble such and when I told a friend of this predicament she exclaimed horror that I didn’t even an own a denim mini skirt. To which I said “I do not have the hips or the ass for a mini anything. The end.” And she suggested Trampage or Forever 21. And because I take dressing up seriously* I trekked out to
I am also nothing if not semi-delusional, which is probably what lead me to drive 40 minutes to
So upon my arrival in to Forever 21 – which, do you realize the crazy looks that a grown adult gets when checking out stuff meant for 15 year olds? I wanted to bitch slap the sales lady because it’s not like I’m 47! I’m 22! – I was a little taken aback. Though delusional, I know that I would never, ever fit into a pair of pants made for those of the prepubescent set. Which I’m OK with. So I went straight for the most ho-riffic dress I could find, that would fit over the twins and my linebacker shoulders***. Which, impossible, right? I mean, I of all people should not be shopping in the Junior’s department, who cares if I can be frugal, there’s still no reason for it and nothing will fit and blah, blah, blah, I got the hottest fucking dress ever. And it fit superbly.
Remember, when I decided that because Tiger goes to the gym and does pilates and can hit clear across a dog leg at the 17th hole and be like 14 under par, then I should go to the gym because then I’ll hit the same exact way and Annika will be jealous? Well, apparently that worked. Sort of. I mean I still can’t hit a dog leg for the life of me and Annika would laugh and pet me on the head and say ‘good try’ with my stellar use of a four iron, but when I did my weekly weigh in, I apparently have lost something like 22 lbs. Completely unintentional, because it sure as hell isn’t because I watch what I eat. Only if ‘watching’ means meticulously staring at my Cajun fries and/or burrito and/or naan smothered in palak paneer as it goes into my mouth because I cannot drop any. So yeah, I guess I’ve been watching what I eat.
Really I don’t know how it happened and I really haven’t given up on my fish fillets or brunch at Georgia Brown’s. But I do know that I can now buy all the cheap crap I want from Trampage (save for pants) and not look like a stuffed sausage and can freely prance around in a $22 dress and some Stuart Weitzman ballet flats and laugh my little (ok, smaller, for now) ass off. And yell at Kris, loudly/drunkenly, in the middle of dinner at
*Except for Halloween. Unless I’ve had plans for weeks, I don’t really do Halloween.
**Except for when it comes to anything that I have no interest in doing, which is why my room looks like a hurricane passed through and why my writing has slowly gotten worse
***Good Lord, I am hot. Line back shoulders, a large ass, and a fro. This is why the men come after me.