Day 5: Super Mottled
Hi! Remember when I said I would be back on Monday? I meant Tuesday. Of...the next week. Sigh.
I am sorry. I lied to you and told you a story that was made of snips and snails and falsehoods, but that is because I had no idea of what the following week would have in store, all of which was Bad, to put things mildly. To put things more accurately, the last week turned out to be a total fucking nightmare, and I had to go out of town with zero notice except "QUICKPACK", and then I got whacked with this emergency project that we usually have ten days to file, but in this instance we had a grand total of 72 hours, and so I was awake for 72 hours, which I thought was just fucking shiny, and then I got incredibly, disgustingly sick and sneezed on everything before going to bed for a day and a half.
But, hey. HEY. Wasn't I supposed to be doing something funny in these paragraphs? Indeed, I was, so let's get on that and not complain about anything else. Except maybe my forgotten love affair with high-waisted jeans, which ultimately came to a tragic end for everyone involved.
So, moving on! Day 5! This was sort of an in-between period, apparently -- the first year or two of high school, when the braces came off and I finally started to get a little less funny looking. Still, not to worry, as I compensated for my relative decrease in Ugly by dressing in clothes that made me look like any one of the following:
(a) I’m heading off to a PTA meeting in my wood-paneled minivan, in spite of the fact that I am not yet old enough to vote. Why, a bake sale?! I vote "Yum!"
(b) I am a crossdresser.
(c) I am an armchair.
Seriously. BEHOLD THE EVIDENCE:
Photographer: Okay, first: pull up your pants.
Self: Like this?
Photographer: No. Higher. Can you get them boob-level? It's slimming.
Self: This is as high as they go, I think.
Photographer: Hmm. Not good. Maybe if...okay, tuck in your sweater.
Self: Tuck in my sweater? But it's...a sweater.
Self: And...boxy, though.
Photographer: Look. Sigh. Do you want to be fashionable, or do you want to look like a complete idiot?
Self: I think the first one.
Photographer: Good. Okay, now, we're going to need a belt. Something...wait, I am having a vision right now. And in this vision I see: gold.
Self: This belt has a really shiny gold buckle; will it work?
Photographer: YES. It is PIRATE CHIC. Now roll up your sleeves and slouch.
Photographer: Slouch a little more...a liiiiittle more...really hunch those shoulders....YES! YES PERFECT. Now sneer and squint, and we're looking at the cover of Seventeen!
...At least, that is what I imagined happened.
I blame that same photographer for coaching me in the following picture, where I continue to be plagued by high-waisted jeans, only now I'm burning my fashion candle on both ends, so to speak, with the pinch rolling:
DOG ESCAPE FROM SCARY PANT NOW.
But, you know, it wasn't all bad jeans and frump. I mean, frump stayed, and then somewhere along the line I decided that it would be a good idea to wear my father's clothes. Specifically, the clothes that did not even begin to fit me, even in my imagination. So I stole pretty much all of the poor man's dress shirts, which I then wore buttoned alllll the way to my chin. Of course, they were enormous on me, so the result was a visually unsettling triangle effect, and either the shirt ballooned around me, tentlike, or I tried to stuff eight yards of starched cotton down into my jeans, which made me look like I was pregnant in both the front and back of my body. And I remember doing this intentionally, all the time, yet as far as I know, I have never suffered a head injury.
I wish I had a better picture of this phenomenon (which...really, this lasted for ages), but we will have to settle for this, the bonus being that when this picture was taken, hairbrushes were illegal in my state. Seriously, look it up if you don't believe me.
I learned it from watching you, Dad!
Apparently, all this starched shirt counterculture led naturally to the next stage of being, wherein I decide that I am some kind of badass, and this is a fact that must be broadcast to the world by my apparel. And that is what is happening here, where I am about ten times cooler than Christmas tree decorating, GOD, and also: HEY WORLD. I WOULD LIKE FOR YOU TO KNOW THAT I AM AWARE OF THE EXISTENCE OF ALCOHOL. I HAVE ITS SHIRT.
But my hair is a rastafarian!
Hee. Oh, I was dumb.
But, hey. It could have been worse. I could have gone all obnoxiously girly, right? With lace and layers and floof and tremendous patterns in a variety of pastel hues? That would have been awful! Ha ha!
Hello. I'm your curtains.
Yeah. But at least I am not the only one. And, actually, judging from y'all's comments, it sounds like plenty of you have excellent pictures, as well! And someone smart in the comments suggested we do a group or something, so we can see them all, and I thought, Hey! That would be a fun idea! Go, Smart Person!
So, know what we should do, and what I will actually do myself, if I can figure it out? Flickr Group! Flickr Group of discomfort! A special place! A Clubhouse of Crap, all ours, and we could crimp each other's hair and compare acne treatments all day long.
So, y'all think about that; if I build it, would y'all come? Or am I going to be left with my pinch rolls, all alone?