By 9 a.m. I’d already managed to make a fool of myself on this rainy-but-happy Wednesday. It all started when I decided to wear a silky green skirt I got a few seasons ago on clearance at Target. It’s one of those faux wrap deals where two swaths of fabric cross in the front, making what I now know is a high point perfect for indecent exposure. The skirt is a little long for me so I usually hike it up and turn the waistband under. When I got out of the car after I arrived at my office, I could tell it had hiked up even more. Things felt suspiciously airy about my knees, so I tugged it down as much as possible. I estimated I might be showing an extra inch or two of leg and decided the necessary readjustments could wait until I got inside and could look in a mirror. Still I held my thankfully-large purse in front of me just in case. Had I known the severity of my fashion dilemma, I would’ve sprinted behind some bushes and dropped into the fetal position. Within 2 seconds of walking in the building, I’d received an odd look from the secretary and a devilish grin from a creepy guy who’s always lurking in the lobby. “Good morning,” I chirped and scuttled to the nearest terlet. There, before a full length mirror, I found that the front of my skirt had gotten so mussed it COULD NOT BE SEEN BENEATH MY SHIRT. Mercifully, my shirt is long enough to cover my bits but only just. And so, to the unfortunate souls who wondered why my wardrobe had taken a turn toward Slutsville, please forgive my transgression and know that you’ll never again have to see my milky white thighs. (And again, I’m still really sorry about the last time.)
In other, less mortifying news, pool season is officially over. There are two pools at my apartment complex, one of which closed a few weeks ago. The folks at my apartment complex office said the other one would be open until this Friday but when I suited up and headed over Monday after work, I found it empty save a sad-looking, inch-deep puddle of murky goo. Perhaps that stagnant water explains how I got seven skeeter bites this weekend. SEVEN. What the hell?? When I was little, anytime I suffered from itchy mosquito bites, my ‘rents told me the pesky bastards bit me because I was so sweet. While that quaint adage is certainly still true, I find it provides me less relief in my bitter adulthood.
On Monday evening, Lean and I watched three episodes of the first season of Heroes. It was very intriguing and compelling but unfortunately, too graphic for me. I know I’m sensitive but there is some really gnarly stuff in that show – decapitation, bloody crime scenes, bodies in the trunk of a car, broken ribs poking out, a hand mauled by a garbage disposal, and a creepy serial killer! No thank you – I prefer puppies, kittens, and candy.
And finally, I must confess that I’ve spent some time browsing Glamour’s Don’tspotting galleries, where people submit photos of fashion don’ts. I feel bad for the victims as it’s a bit predatory and self-righteous but some missteps deserve critical glares and sneers, no?