I have been wanting to vent about this subject for a while now, waiting for the opportunity to present itself. Well, the opportunity has come in the form of one Justin Bieber and his skivvies. He honored us with the presence of his Fruit Of The Loom in this week’s “People” magazine:
If you look at “Exhibit A” you will notice he is practically naked. I can’t comprehend why he even bothered. In “Exhibit B” it just looks like his pants are loaded up. Although I’m sure his mother will say he has been potty trained for at least 16 years.
You cannot possibly tell me that this doesn’t annoy him just a tad. I’ll tell you when I wear my low-rise jeans (I know, low-rise+muffin top+middle age=NO — I’m sorry, I have no excuse), I am driven to drink because I am continuously yanking those dang things up. Almost to the point where my fingers bleed.
And it’s just not celebrities. I see it all the time, everywhere. Please do us all a favor. Keep your ass inside your pants or inside the privacy of your own home. I really don’t need to look at it. Once I saw a boy whose pants were so low, it was indecent. I almost called the police. Seriously.
Now, all you young girls out there, you cannot possibly tell me that this look is hot. I know I’m mid-fortysomething and you probably could really care less about my opinion but I was a teenage girl once. And I can promise you that look would have completely sent me running to the nearest convent if that was my only choice.
The first time I saw it, I was stunned. I sat staring trying to figure it out. It’s as if they are defying gravity or something. But then I see that they tighten their belt right below their boot-ay. Ouch. Aren’t there other unmentionables right around that frontal area? Geez, I sure hope they don’t want any babies one day because they’ll probably kill all their swimmers by means of strangulation or asphyxiation.
I can see the future headline now: “The human race is in danger of becoming extinct because of over zealous boys and their belts.” Joy.
Yesterday the sun came out for the first time in what seemed like ages. It was really, really nice. The sun was shining brightly into my bathroom window. There was lots of sunshiny awesomeness.
Once upon a time, lots of sunshiny awesomeness may have been good for putting on makeup. But now, it just reminds us of how old we are getting. Remember those vanity mirrors we all got for Christmas when we were adolescents? There was a setting on it for “daylight.” I loved that daylight setting. When I was 14.
I proceeded to apply my makeup in the usual way. In a very bright room. Not the dark room I have been accustomed to all winter. I always thought I did my makeup in a natural way. This is basically what I looked like, minus the red nose:
I looked closely at my eyelids. Or what’s left of them. It’s hard to tell where my lid ends and my cheeks start. And with eye shadow applied it was even more pronounced. They have more folds than a baby’s thigh. But not as cute. Or as sweet. Or as darling. When did that happen? I see quite the resemblance between Droopy the Dog and me.
I felt obligated to title those photos, in case you weren’t sure.
My eyeshadow doesn’t even look like eyeshadow. It just looks like a bad paint job on a couple of sandbags.
Oh, well. It is what it is. I’m really not into cosmetic surgery but for survival, I may need a lid lift. Any day now those babies will be hanging down so low, I may be blinded. Then I will embrace my maturity and perhaps age gracefully. Maybe.
In my previous life, I was a heel wearer. A pretty high high-heel wearer. I could wear those suckers all day at work. I could run down the hall to the copy machine or to catch a train. I probably could have even worked out in them. With no problems. These days, my footwear of choice are either something resembling that of a senior citizen’s orthopedic or hush puppies.
Last year, DH and I went into NYC with friends of ours. You cannot go into NYC looking like a shlump. So, I went to TJ Maxx and bought myself the cutest high heels that I could find in my size. And that I thought I could manage.
My gorgeous niece, who happens to be an amazing and talented hair dresser wears shoes that are about 3 inches taller than this all day at work. So I know she would just roll her eyes at me and say that these are nothing. To her and many other 20-somethings they ARE nothing. To me, it’s like wearing a torture device that resembles that of a nail bed sticking into the balls of my feet.
We drove into the city. I wore them starting from home and all through dinner. At this point, I want to cry. I am already a wobbling, limping idiot. But I didn’t want to take them off for fear of not being able to get them on again. When we were at dinner, I sat there with my legs crossed tightly because I was afraid to walk to the bathroom which happened to be upstairs. When I finally realized I had to give in or REALLY embarrass myself, I stared at that staircase in fear. As if I were going to be walking to my execution. And when I just could not possibly hold it any longer, I looked like a drunk three-toed sloth. Might I add, we were in a really trendy, pishy-poshy eating establishment whose clientele was young enough to be my children. And I looked like a complete ass.
After we finished dinner, we decided to walk to the comedy club. Why I agreed is beyond me. I should have hailed a cab. I was so desperate to NOT walk, that I would have thrown myself in front of one just to stop the pain.
Since then, I have tried to wear them on a night out again. But the thought creates such anxiety I need a Xanax. So I settle on my orthopedics. What can I say? I rock those orthos. And my feet have thanked me time and time again.
Damn! My chicken and ground beef never made it into my cart. The nice boy at the store who bagged my groceries didn’t put it in. I didn’t notice until I got home. Ugh. Now I have to go back. Unfortunately, the store I shopped at is down the street from the kid’s dance studio which is over 20 minutes away from my home. I guess it doesn’t have to be a major problem. The next time she has dance, I figured I would stop by and pick it up, which was Tuesday — the night before I wanted to make the meal with the beef. Perfect.
On the way to dance Tuesday night, I drove right by that ever-lovin’ store, not once but twice. It never occurred to me to stop in to collect my meats. What a shocker.
Wednesday morning, as I was getting prepared to get my crockpot meal together, I opened the freezer to extract my pound of ground beef. I couldn’t understand why it wasn’t laying right on top. It should be since I only went grocery shopping 3 days ago. So, I proceed to search deeper. It took me about 30 seconds before I remembered where it was. Crap! Poop! SHIT!!!! I really didn’t have time for this. It was going to be a crazy afternoon.
I stood up from the freezer with a dazed look on my face. I felt like I was hit with a stun gun. Wait. What happened? I thought I was going to be passing that store on Tuesday. Then I remembered that I DID pass that store on Tuesday because Tuesday was yesterday. Awesome. I’m an ass.
I know I already have one foot in the looney bin. But can’t I blame this whole thing on the store bagger guy? Yes, I think I will. I don’t think I’ll add this to the list of reasons why I should be committed. Oh and I hope my family doesn’t mind Chinese again.
Paper towels, paper towels, paper towels. I say it over and over again in my head so I don’t forget why I’m going into the pantry. By the time I reach the pantry, I’ve stopped saying it because I suddenly remember that I really enjoyed last week’s Grey’s Anatomy episode. Boy, that Cristina and Owen are so sexy together. I’m really digging their “non-married” relationship. It’s HOT. Mmmm.
Wait. What was I doing??? Oh yeah, I was getting….oh damn. Now I have to backtrack, go to the exact spot I was standing in, and pray that it comes back to me. Let’s see….I was washing the dishes that my dishwashing allergic family left in the sink. I was going to dry them. Oh, right….
Paper towels, paper towels, paper towels. Gee, I’m really looking forward to getting my hair cut tomorrow. I can’t do a damn thing with it. What time is my appointment again?
When the kid was about 2, my monthly visitor Flo, started getting a bit too heavy for my taste. I could get graphic, but I will spare you the bloody details.
It only took about 10 years for my OB to realize that my fibroid was the “first I’ve ever seen in my 30 year career.” It had faster growth than Arnold Schwarzenegger on steroids.
These were my choices: medication that would catapult me into early menopause (having bamboo shoots rammed under my nail beds seemed more appealing) or a hysterectomy. The good doctor thought I should think it through, talk to the hubby. Yeah right. My hubby isn’t the one with the tumor the size of Mount Vesuvius, which by the way, oozed less than I did. I immediately replied with a “let’s rip ‘er out.” No thought necessary.
I think I was most surprised by everyone’s reaction. I thought for sure they’d all be as happy as I was. I felt like I did when I first learned of my pregnancy. I couldn’t wait to share the news. DH thought I should get a second opinion and some thought I would be hurled into a depression.
Well, the second opinion? Thanks, honey, but if you’ve removed one uterus, you’ve removed them all. This isn’t brain surgery. And depression? I had one person send me a link to a Dr. Oz show on just this thing. Give me a break. I was more depressed when they stopped airing “Thirty Something.”
So, I had a Bon Voyage party for my period and on April 7, 2010 my tumor and lady parts were removed and deposited into the nearest dump. I kid you not — I was the happiest I have been EVER! As far as all the incidentals I still had: I wrapped them up in a pretty bow and gave them to my daughter as a gift. She didn’t appreciate it. Ingrate.