Tuesday, February 19, 2013
Skinny Red Genes: There are NO mistakes.
Skinny Red Genes: There are NO mistakes.: There are no mistakes. Thank you sage adage on Taco Bell hot sauce. Thank you tweet from twenty something wearing the same blouse that I a...
Sunday, February 17, 2013
There are NO mistakes.
There are no mistakes.
Thank you sage adage on Taco Bell hot sauce.
Thank you tweet from twenty something wearing the same blouse that I am wearing...as a mini-skirt.
Thank you face-book verbiage, in fanciful font, attached to the Dali Lama, Buddha, or Morgan Freeman.
But most of all thank you exhaustion.
Because of your steady pressure, my bedraggled self had approximately five minutes to traipse about the clearance aisle in Target. I had a three month old birthday gift card and was eager to purchase something meaningful.
And fast.
Always fast.
The clearance section beckoned; SEVENTY FIVE PERCENT OFF. My card became physically warmer. Then my bloodshot eyes fell upon it; the holy grail of youth, physical prowess, and hope.
THE SKINNY JEAN.
And it was red, passion red, juicy red, forbidden red.
With three minutes to spare, I grabbed it and a pack of bubble mint and stood in line behind a man whose basket overflowed with paper towels. I thought about the parties I would wear it to, I thought about adding a red streak to my hair and how the conversation and martini's would flow wildly sparked by my clearance aisle style.
What happened next flew by...I picked up my son, I set up a game in his room, I went upstairs and extracted my booty.
WARNING ONE: The tag said Misses. As in from the Misses section...where I shopped in the fifth grade.
WARNING TWO: Upon holding up said booty to my self I could not help but notice it was HALF the size of my actual booty. How much stretch could denim yield?
WARNING THREE: After yoga worthy contortions and a fair amount of baby powder I could only shimmy the passion red bastion of youth to the thickest part of my thighs.
WARNING FOUR: In trying release myself from it's pre-shrunk grip, I fell to the floor, bruised my knee and burst the baby powder. My son's worried face poked in. I appeared to be a coke addict.
How could this be?
I have tons of pictures of myself on face book. People TELL me I look pretty. Red skinny jeans are the next step.
I guess face-book is fiction, or selective fiction...and you never see my body. My mind was whirling. I marched into the bathroom, I flung off my remaining clothes. I even forced myself to urinate.
You can never be too careful I got on the scale and saw, with blaring certainty what my choices have rendered.
I was devastated. I slunk back to my room and looked at the wardrobe choice that started it all.
I could not return something so powdered.
So I made a promise, right there, in my undies, cellulite and all.
RED SKINNY JEANS, YOU ARE MY EVEREST, MY PAINTING, MY MAGNUM OPUS; THE MASTERPIECE I WILL WEAR.
Granted, I did not create the jeans but I will reshape the genes.
I will get into my passion sans baby powder, sans throwing out body parts and scaring progeny. And I will chronicle it here.
There are no mistakes.
Thank you sage adage on Taco Bell hot sauce.
Thank you tweet from twenty something wearing the same blouse that I am wearing...as a mini-skirt.
Thank you face-book verbiage, in fanciful font, attached to the Dali Lama, Buddha, or Morgan Freeman.
But most of all thank you exhaustion.
Because of your steady pressure, my bedraggled self had approximately five minutes to traipse about the clearance aisle in Target. I had a three month old birthday gift card and was eager to purchase something meaningful.
And fast.
Always fast.
The clearance section beckoned; SEVENTY FIVE PERCENT OFF. My card became physically warmer. Then my bloodshot eyes fell upon it; the holy grail of youth, physical prowess, and hope.
THE SKINNY JEAN.
And it was red, passion red, juicy red, forbidden red.
With three minutes to spare, I grabbed it and a pack of bubble mint and stood in line behind a man whose basket overflowed with paper towels. I thought about the parties I would wear it to, I thought about adding a red streak to my hair and how the conversation and martini's would flow wildly sparked by my clearance aisle style.
What happened next flew by...I picked up my son, I set up a game in his room, I went upstairs and extracted my booty.
WARNING ONE: The tag said Misses. As in from the Misses section...where I shopped in the fifth grade.
WARNING TWO: Upon holding up said booty to my self I could not help but notice it was HALF the size of my actual booty. How much stretch could denim yield?
WARNING THREE: After yoga worthy contortions and a fair amount of baby powder I could only shimmy the passion red bastion of youth to the thickest part of my thighs.
WARNING FOUR: In trying release myself from it's pre-shrunk grip, I fell to the floor, bruised my knee and burst the baby powder. My son's worried face poked in. I appeared to be a coke addict.
How could this be?
I have tons of pictures of myself on face book. People TELL me I look pretty. Red skinny jeans are the next step.
I guess face-book is fiction, or selective fiction...and you never see my body. My mind was whirling. I marched into the bathroom, I flung off my remaining clothes. I even forced myself to urinate.
You can never be too careful I got on the scale and saw, with blaring certainty what my choices have rendered.
I was devastated. I slunk back to my room and looked at the wardrobe choice that started it all.
I could not return something so powdered.
So I made a promise, right there, in my undies, cellulite and all.
RED SKINNY JEANS, YOU ARE MY EVEREST, MY PAINTING, MY MAGNUM OPUS; THE MASTERPIECE I WILL WEAR.
Granted, I did not create the jeans but I will reshape the genes.
I will get into my passion sans baby powder, sans throwing out body parts and scaring progeny. And I will chronicle it here.
There are no mistakes.
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