It's my microclimate, stupid
Dear Middle-Aged Ladies Of Dublin (and some old men),
You know who you are. Over-70s don't seem to care, but I can see you there, crossing yourselves, sneering at me. I can see you mouth the words 'disgraceful' or 'shameful'. I heard you take the Lord's name in vain. I don't think He would like that.
I'll admit, my shorts are scandalously short. It's a comfort thing. And when I smile at you, I'm not doing so in deference to your judgement of my disgraceful appearance, I'm trying to break your discomfiting sneer. I'm also laughing because you're funny. Real funny. Every day when I buy my paper, I've got tits -- big ones, small ones, real ones, plastic ones -- right in my face, but it's me who's a shameful, shameful woman. I ought to be ashamed of myself. Thing is, though, I'm not. And every time you roll your eyes at me and huff through your hairy nose, I regret having covered myself at all. If I had my way, I'd have left even the shorts at home. The less I'm wearing when I run, the more freely I can move. The more freely I can hurdle over shopping trolleys, Council trucks and dogshit.
I can't run with all sorts of fabric all over me. It gets twisted. I trip over tracksuit pants, like I'm trying to escape from a duvet cover. I can't stand tights. Not that I owe you an explanation, but I'll explain to you how these shorts work. Underneath them, there is another pair of shorts attached to the outside ones. So that's three, yes, three layers between you and a Novena. And at least I'm wearing underwear, but you make me wish I hadn't bothered.
If you're so concerned about me, I'll tell you what you should worry about, and that's my microclimate. If you look north, you'll see my jacket, or my thermal top, or whatever. It wicks away moisture, it keeps heat in, it does whatever it does so that I don't have to wear anything heavy and constricting. I don't understand it, but that's where the science happens. But between that jacket and my winter compression layer, there's a very bad place. It's what they call a 'microclimate', where the heat is, and where the atmosphere is somewhere between the anaerobic environment of a blanket bog and the air on the planet Venus. It's a regular stank factory. I recommend that, when I'm paused at the level crossing, and I take that jacket off to cool off -- because while it's cold out, it's summer in the terrible ecosystem of my wardrobe -- you'll not want to be downwind of me. That's the only thing you need to worry about. That, and the fate of your soul after death.
I'll tell you another thing: Jesus wouldn't like you. See, let's say you're the Messiah, and let's say 'Heaven' is like a Dublin Bus. You're the fucking Messiah, remember, so you can sit anywhere you want. You gonna pick the seat next to the busybody biddy who does nothing but exclaim 'disgrace' all day? No, you're gonna sit next to the chick who's got a sense of humour, maybe even one who's showing a bit of leg. The one who has better things to do with her time than worry about a bit of flabby thigh on a Monday morning. Keep going to Mass, honey, and when that bus comes, you'll be at the back of the top deck with the rest of the babbling smug pricks.
So either smile back because it's not polite to sneer, or find somewhere else to look.
Thanks bunches.
Love,
Jane
You know who you are. Over-70s don't seem to care, but I can see you there, crossing yourselves, sneering at me. I can see you mouth the words 'disgraceful' or 'shameful'. I heard you take the Lord's name in vain. I don't think He would like that.
I'll admit, my shorts are scandalously short. It's a comfort thing. And when I smile at you, I'm not doing so in deference to your judgement of my disgraceful appearance, I'm trying to break your discomfiting sneer. I'm also laughing because you're funny. Real funny. Every day when I buy my paper, I've got tits -- big ones, small ones, real ones, plastic ones -- right in my face, but it's me who's a shameful, shameful woman. I ought to be ashamed of myself. Thing is, though, I'm not. And every time you roll your eyes at me and huff through your hairy nose, I regret having covered myself at all. If I had my way, I'd have left even the shorts at home. The less I'm wearing when I run, the more freely I can move. The more freely I can hurdle over shopping trolleys, Council trucks and dogshit.
I can't run with all sorts of fabric all over me. It gets twisted. I trip over tracksuit pants, like I'm trying to escape from a duvet cover. I can't stand tights. Not that I owe you an explanation, but I'll explain to you how these shorts work. Underneath them, there is another pair of shorts attached to the outside ones. So that's three, yes, three layers between you and a Novena. And at least I'm wearing underwear, but you make me wish I hadn't bothered.
If you're so concerned about me, I'll tell you what you should worry about, and that's my microclimate. If you look north, you'll see my jacket, or my thermal top, or whatever. It wicks away moisture, it keeps heat in, it does whatever it does so that I don't have to wear anything heavy and constricting. I don't understand it, but that's where the science happens. But between that jacket and my winter compression layer, there's a very bad place. It's what they call a 'microclimate', where the heat is, and where the atmosphere is somewhere between the anaerobic environment of a blanket bog and the air on the planet Venus. It's a regular stank factory. I recommend that, when I'm paused at the level crossing, and I take that jacket off to cool off -- because while it's cold out, it's summer in the terrible ecosystem of my wardrobe -- you'll not want to be downwind of me. That's the only thing you need to worry about. That, and the fate of your soul after death.
I'll tell you another thing: Jesus wouldn't like you. See, let's say you're the Messiah, and let's say 'Heaven' is like a Dublin Bus. You're the fucking Messiah, remember, so you can sit anywhere you want. You gonna pick the seat next to the busybody biddy who does nothing but exclaim 'disgrace' all day? No, you're gonna sit next to the chick who's got a sense of humour, maybe even one who's showing a bit of leg. The one who has better things to do with her time than worry about a bit of flabby thigh on a Monday morning. Keep going to Mass, honey, and when that bus comes, you'll be at the back of the top deck with the rest of the babbling smug pricks.
So either smile back because it's not polite to sneer, or find somewhere else to look.
Thanks bunches.
Love,
Jane