You know, sometimes I believe I am honestly so darned cute that I have a bit of a crush on myself.
Today, however, was not one of those days.
Today, I partook in a tradition which is held as very holy in the finer trailer parks and Nascar rallies across the land.
I wore sweatpants.
All. Day. Long.
To the cafe where Esteban and I dined upon freshly made buttermilk pancakes and mushroom and cheese-like substance omelets. To our friend Eric’s new home, where he was not there but I chatted with his neighbor’s new black lab puppy, who sniffed my elastic adorned ankles with great glee, as they undoubtedly reminded it of its favorite tube sock chew toy. To the Fat Lady’s store where I walked in at precisely 5:57 PM defying the “Closed” sign because the matronly fat lady proprietors weren’t fooling me with their “Closed” sign as I knew that they closed at 6:00 damn it, and demanded black tights.
I think the sweatpants empowered me a bit, too. They allowed me to get into an unsightly black tight argument with the Fat Lady store clerks over the fact that tights should be kept in stock during the winter months, despite the fact that the fashion industry or possibly the Middle Aged School Teachers and Librarians Who Wear Embroidered Shit and Kitties On Their Sweaters and Otherwise Perfectly Good White Button Down Shirts fashion world, have determined that December 1st is SPRING! Yes, that’s right, it is SPRING! And they had tights in stock in JULY when it was the winter fashion season.
I ended up buying black stockings instead, which was all for not since the dress I had purchased for $4.99 looked, in Esteban’s words, like someone made a dress out of a sofa.
I was supposed to go out to see our friend Phil’s band tonight, but instead I watched “Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town”, with the Burgermeister, Winter the Warlock, Jessica, and all the Kringles.
Besides, going out like an adult would have meant that I would have had to eschew my jogging pants. Plus, I’m starting to toy with the notion of going to Walmart and picking me up some hot pink stirrup pants and a Jeff Gordon t-shirt with horizontal stripes. Excuse me. I must now go back to wondering who the people are on the new Gap commercials. I’m patting myself on the back for recognizing Sheryl Crow, but that’s where I peak in apparent hipness.
