hanging out in the dressing room
I wanted such silly little things from a relationship.
One of which was to have someone around to appreciate and give me advice on my wardrobe.
This afternoon is the premature birthday celebration for two of my friends, H. and L. As has always been the case in my peer group, birthdays are celebrated not with gifts, but rather with eating. Traditionally, the restaurant and/or style of food is the choice birthday boy (or, in theory, girl) while the tab is picked up by the remaining participants. It is also the case that such fetes are largely organized by A. who is remarkably cheap. As a result, attendance is usually excessively large (to bring down everyone's relative cost) or two vaguely contemporaneous birthdays are conflated and celebrated as one.
This afternoon's party is a case of the latter.
Inexplicably, H. has chosen to have a barbecue at his house, so we are left with a bit of a conundrum. How to divy up the price of the celebration so as to avoid any actual gift-giving? I think we are just bringing food and drinks.
But I digress. My entire point of this entry was that this is one of those moments that I wish I had a boyfriend. Not just because it would give me someone to definitely latch onto as I stood aside and made snide comments about H.'s neo-yuppie, Ivy League college friends, but because ninety percent of my fun comes from deciding what to wear. I usually attempt to diffuse my social discomfort by making other people uncomfortable and, since there are not likely to be any transvestites for me to freak at this gala, I have to find a way to do it alone.
I was thinking about wearing a dog collar.
I have this fantastic, nearly four inch wide spiked dog collar that a good friend sent to me. I also have this picture in my head of H.'s incredibly humorless blue-blood buddies, the ones who had the nerve to throw my inappropriate ornament onto the floor at his Christmas party, staring at me in complete disgust as I stand about casually chatting and eating hot dogs clad in something outrageously gay accented by a large, black, spiked dog collar. I think it would be delightful.
So, after I drove home last night around 1 am, I did the whole one-man fashion show bit and discovered, much to my dismay, that nothing really goes with a huge spiked dog collar. And by "nothing" I mean, literally, the only thing that looks good is for me to go shirtless and, while I am reasonably comfortable with my body, I think there might be a no-shirts-no-shoes-no-service policy at this thing. So, somewhat disappointed, I started delving into my modicum of overly queer tops (black sleeveless spandex, black double zippered (so you can show your belly) shirt with fly collar, too-tight yellow shirt open down to xiphoid process, uber-tight white collared shirt that is almost transparent and shows my nipples).
I can't figure out what to wear. That is essentially the point of this entry. And the entire process would have been so much more fun with someone else.
One of which was to have someone around to appreciate and give me advice on my wardrobe.
This afternoon is the premature birthday celebration for two of my friends, H. and L. As has always been the case in my peer group, birthdays are celebrated not with gifts, but rather with eating. Traditionally, the restaurant and/or style of food is the choice birthday boy (or, in theory, girl) while the tab is picked up by the remaining participants. It is also the case that such fetes are largely organized by A. who is remarkably cheap. As a result, attendance is usually excessively large (to bring down everyone's relative cost) or two vaguely contemporaneous birthdays are conflated and celebrated as one.
This afternoon's party is a case of the latter.
Inexplicably, H. has chosen to have a barbecue at his house, so we are left with a bit of a conundrum. How to divy up the price of the celebration so as to avoid any actual gift-giving? I think we are just bringing food and drinks.
But I digress. My entire point of this entry was that this is one of those moments that I wish I had a boyfriend. Not just because it would give me someone to definitely latch onto as I stood aside and made snide comments about H.'s neo-yuppie, Ivy League college friends, but because ninety percent of my fun comes from deciding what to wear. I usually attempt to diffuse my social discomfort by making other people uncomfortable and, since there are not likely to be any transvestites for me to freak at this gala, I have to find a way to do it alone.
I was thinking about wearing a dog collar.
I have this fantastic, nearly four inch wide spiked dog collar that a good friend sent to me. I also have this picture in my head of H.'s incredibly humorless blue-blood buddies, the ones who had the nerve to throw my inappropriate ornament onto the floor at his Christmas party, staring at me in complete disgust as I stand about casually chatting and eating hot dogs clad in something outrageously gay accented by a large, black, spiked dog collar. I think it would be delightful.
So, after I drove home last night around 1 am, I did the whole one-man fashion show bit and discovered, much to my dismay, that nothing really goes with a huge spiked dog collar. And by "nothing" I mean, literally, the only thing that looks good is for me to go shirtless and, while I am reasonably comfortable with my body, I think there might be a no-shirts-no-shoes-no-service policy at this thing. So, somewhat disappointed, I started delving into my modicum of overly queer tops (black sleeveless spandex, black double zippered (so you can show your belly) shirt with fly collar, too-tight yellow shirt open down to xiphoid process, uber-tight white collared shirt that is almost transparent and shows my nipples).
I can't figure out what to wear. That is essentially the point of this entry. And the entire process would have been so much more fun with someone else.