Archive for the ‘embarrassing’ Category

My boyfriend H is a very generous and giving person.  He is the ultimate volunteer, he likes to donate stuff (time, money, goods, services), he is overall a very civic-minded fellow.  Which is great!

Except when November rolls around.

You see, recently a black cloud has settled over my Novembers, and it’s not just Autumn rolling in with a vengeance.  Oh no.  This is a cloud of a different variety.  A hairier variety, if you will.

Movember is a charity event held every November to raise money for Men’s Cancer.  Sounds innocent enough, right?  WRONG.  Do you know what the MO stands for in Movember?  Do you?  I’ll give you 5 seconds to think.

Did you figure it out?  No?


That’s right.  Some evil genius decided that to participate in Movember (which is a great charity for a great cause, don’t get me wrong) you must grow a mustache.  On your face.  For four. Entire. Weeks.

Let’s do the math, shall we?  Charity-friendly boyfriend + his uncanny ability to sprout facial hair + worldwide event in which you can showcase your manliness and throw the occasional party ‘for a good cause’ + excuse to embarrass and anger his girlfriend (always fun) = H’s participation in Movember.

That’s right.  H is, as we speak, the proud and gleeful owner of a disgusting and disturbing mustache.  Made of hair. On his face.  A real one.

This is not the first time that H has terrorized me with facial hair.  Over the years I have been forced to deal with various iterations of his scruff, including the full beard, the long, scraggly goatee, the full beard WITH the long scraggly goatee integrated into it, the isolated chin scruff, the long sideburns, and of course, my personal nightmare, the classic kiddie-toucher mustache. With the advent of Movember, however, he now has an excuse that I have no argument against.  Oh, you hate my facial hair, Mary?  GUESS YOU LOVE CANCER THEN.

I cannot impress upon you guys enough how enraged The Mustache makes me.  Whenever I see him my thought process goes something like this:


2. So tall! Such nice blue eyes!


I’m not exaggerating.  In the least.  I become positively apoplectic.  I glare at it.  Not him, it. The Mustache.

I don’t know why it makes me so mad.  It just does. The Mustache holds a mystical and dangerous power over me.

But now, backed by the power of a cancer charity, there is no hope.  I’m condemned to suffer the eye-searing sight of MUSTACHE.  All up in my grill, taunting me, scratching my face, making me seethe, all the time.

November is a bleak month.  Bleak and angry.

Well, actually, scratch that.  H loves his mustache.  He is apparently blind to the fact that it makes him look a little bit like the principal in Ferris Bueller’s Day off (who, not at all coincidentally, has recently been arrested for kiddie porn charges and pedophilia.  Not kidding).  He apparently enjoys the fact that, when out in public, people have to do a double take to ascertain whether or not his is an ironic mustache or a true, creep-star mustache.  I want to stick a button on him that states, in large font, I’M DOING THIS FOR CHARITY, NOT FOR REAL LIFE.  But to no one’s surprise, he refuses.

You can see it, don't lie.

I know there are people out there (my dad, H’s dad, and H, mostly) who will argue that mustaches look good.  And to them I say, no.  No they do not.  Not ironically, not seriously, not for charity, not even if you are a cop (DAD!).  They never.  Ever.  EVER.  Look good.

But they can be hilarious.  When they aren’t taking up space on my boyfriend’s face, that is.  And to that end, I would like to conclude this ragey post with some humorous pictures of crazy staches.  Let’s just hope this does not inspire H.  Because let’s be honest.  I will harm someone if this goes on.

The Competitive Stache


The Finger-Stache

The Your-Doing-It-Wrong Stache


the...well actually, I could be convinced with this one (stache)



The Hair Stache



The ironic stache


PS: Happy Thanksgiving!  Gobble gobble.

PPS: Thanks to B and S for unconsciously donating their stache pictures, (the two babes above).  Love you gals.


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Hell on Heels

I consider myself a grown-up, for the most part.  I pay bills and dutifully save money and buy healthy food even though what I really want to eat is Sausage, Egg, and Cheese on an onion bagel all day, every day.

There is one thing, though, that I have a hard time accepting.  And that is the notion that sophisticated grown-up city gals wear high heels.  And not just for special occasions.  All. The freaking. Time.

Just your typical everday footwear

Sex and the City was not lying when it depicted NYC as the land of the platform stiletto monster heel.  Women here march around in the most ridiculous shoes I have ever seen.  And I’m not sure it’s a case of “look at my heels, I’m so fashionable,” or just because they truly enjoy mangling their feet.  Who knows.  This place is full of weirdo masochists.

I just can’t wrap my head around it.  You would think in this city, where walking is generally the standard for getting around, people would wear shoes which facilitate actual walking. But no.  Instead they (and by ‘they’ I mean women) teeter around in shoes that defy all reason, logic, and physics.

Alexander McQueen heels...the pinacle of insanity.

Don’t get me wrong: I admire these ladies.  I am downright jealous of them.  Because I am physically incapable of wearing high heels.  Wait, correction.  I am physically incapable of functioning in high heels.  Putting them on my feet: fine.  Attempting to then move around and live life after they have been put on: not so fine.  I struggle with high heels.  To say the least.

It’s not because I’m one of those silly girls who ‘can’t walk in heels.’  I know how to walk in heels.  I know you have to revise the way you move and work it.  Which, let’s be honest, is kind of awesome and fun and all I am woman hear me roar, biatch.  The problem is my feet.   H calls them my ‘clubbies.’  As in they are club-shaped.  Small and squared-off and really really inappropriate for any sort of shoe other than maybe a ballet flat, which is what I live in.  I put on heels, admire how nice they make my legs look and how adorable they are, and the minute I start walking around my feet and toes begin to protest.  Hang on a minute girlfriend.  You really think we’re going to stand being shoved in this shoe and forced into a different shape?  Hells to the no.  We’re going to blister and bleed and ache until you come to your senses and realize this is NOT working.  It’s science.

Thanks, oddly shaped feet and toes…Thanks a ton for working with me here.  Really making my life easier.

However, regardless of this genetic predisposition, I still try.  You know how there’s that saying that goes: the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results?

That is my relationship with heels, in a nut shell.

It still hasn’t occurred to me that I should probably stop buying heels.  My closet is a virtual graveyard of shoes I loved in the store, bought, wore for a night, and then swore off because it took two weeks for my feet to heal afterwards. That’s probably part of the problem: I get so incensed at the pain these stupid shoes put me though that I swear I will banish them forever after a single wear.  Thus effectively stopping the ever important ‘breaking-in’ process cold.  Really, before it even began.

I am a huge baby.  Have I mentioned that?  High heels have made me cry.  Sure, it might have been after a martini or 4, but still.  Tears.

I do try to make them comfortable.  I try to buy higher-end heels with the notion that if they are better made they will hurt less (they don’t).  I buy tons of little accessories to try to protect my precious tootsies: heel pads and gel inserts and moleskin…you name it, I’ve bought it.  But nothing, and I mean nothing, saves me from feet covered in band aids, begging to be put out of their misery.  It probably goes without saying that I am also that girl who will give up on wearing heels at the end of the night and wanders barefoot through questionable terrain just to be free of those damn shoes.  How I do not have tetanus or rabies is beyond me.

If I was smart I would carry around a secondary pair of non-heels for the days when I brave the stiletto.  Of course I don’t do that.  Because it defeats the whole purpose of wearing a high heel. And anyway, I am stubborn.

I will continue to gape at purdy heels in store windows.  I will continue to spend pointless dollars on them.  I will continue to force H to carry me around at the end of evenings when my be-heeled feet have had too much.  I will continue this all, damn it, until my feet get the memo and submit.  So help me god.

A girl can dream, right?

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To no one’s surprise, I’m sure, I am a bit of a hypochondriac.  I think it goes hand-in-hand with my obsessive/anxious/psychotic thing I’ve got going on.  Because what is more fun and energy-consuming than convincing yourself that you’re dying of various diseases!

It doesn’t help that I have a delicate constitution to begin with.  You know those pale, frail looking Victorian ladies that look like they’d fall over if you sneezed near them?  That should’ve been me.  I was definitely born in the wrong era.  Give me a parasol and a tea set and I’m set for life.  Or at least I would’ve been, had the universe not played this cruel joke on me and placed me squarely in a post-millennial world.  Shoot.

If I was better at Photoshop I would've stuck my face on here

So because of my delicate-ness I often struggle with my health.  This is not new.  Every organized sport I ever attempted ended in me injured and most likely bleeding.  I missed almost all of 1st grade due to chronic tonsillitis and the subsequent tonsillectomy that was supposed to fix it.  Which is why I now can’t really tell time on an analog clock.  Or do math in general.  But that’s neither here nor there.

The point is that these days its way to dangerously easy for me to self-diagnosis every pain and weird feeling and suspicious looking freckle (skin cancer runs in the family OKAY).  And trust me, I am very observant.  There is a lot to diagnose.

Usually it goes something along these lines:

1. Feel something weird.  Sit quietly for a moment to ensure this is not a figment of my imagination.  Nope. That tender, kind of hurting spot on your tongue is real. PANIC!  WHAT COULD IT BE?

2. Poke/prod suspicious area until you’ve endured enough pain to decide that maybe sticking it with a sewing needle isn’t the best course of action.  Even if you did ‘sterilize’ it with a match first.

3. Whip out the computer.  Google the issue.  Because googling solves everything.  For example: “Weird white spot on tongue that hurts” (this was a real google search of mine).  UPON PAIN OF DEATH do NOT click on ‘images.’  You’ll have nightmares for weeks.  Seriously.

4. After an exhaustive Google search that turns up a bunch of quacks advising you to either SEEK A DOCTOR IMMEDIATELY or ‘just pull that sucker off yourself with a nail-clipper!’ (real advice on aforementioned tongue ouchie), turn to your dear, trusted friend, Web M.D

*A quick note about WebM.D.  I don’t know who invented it, but thank you.  Thank you for giving me one singular place that has literally every known medical malady just waiting for me to find it and convince myself I am dying.  Because Web M.D is legit.  It’s has a medical degree. Duh.

5. After an in-depth perusal of WebM.D  it is now clear that you have Oral Cancer of the tongual variety.  Find closest mirror and stare at spot on tongue for the next 45 minutes, wondering how long you have left to live, and who you should will your wardrobe too.

6. Ambush innocent bystander (boyfriend) and force him to examine you.  Tell him he’s stupid when he suggests maybe you are just dehydrated or tired.  These two reasons are his answer to literally every medical issue that you have.  Amateur.

7. Take some Excedrine Migraine.  Because that cures everything (okay, not really maybe, but that doesn’t stop me from taking it on an almost daily basis.  I get headaches!).

8. Call dear sweet Auntie K. who happens to be an RN.  Send a text-photo of your tongue to her to review.  Discuss how long it’s been there and what it feel like.

9. Stare at ouchie thing the mirror a little while longer.  Has it gotten bigger? I think it’s gotten bigger.

10. Swish with warm salt water.  Go to bed.  Wake up in the morning perfectly healthy.  Rejoice.  Until the next thing pops up, and the cycle continues…

Do you see what I’m dealing with here?  This isn’t even something I can control.  It just happens.  It doesn’t help that literally everything is out to kill you and give you cancer these days.  Your food, your water, the sun, everything. It’s terrifying.  TERRIFYING.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a suspect red dot on my knee that needs addressing.  Probably leprosy.

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Confession time: I worry a lot.  About everything.

That’s probably an understatement.  I worry a TON.  It’s my favorite activity, other than sleeping, or eating.  It’s exhausting and I can’t help it and I don’t even notice I do it, most of the time.

I went to Boston this weekend and since I don’t have a car (hint hint, mom & dad…25th b-day present!) I took a bus.  That’s right.  A BUS.  It was my first bus ride EVER, which is pretty impressive since apparently the Northeast Corridor is primo bus-traveling territory.

It wasn’t the dreaded Chinatown bus that I took, but rather the very nice and clean and harmless Megabus.  Nevertheless, my worry over getting myself on said bus kicked in approximately 6 days before I even had to leave.  Example phone conversation with H, on Monday (bus departure time: Friday, 4:50pm).

Me: But I don’t know where it departs.

H: so look at the website.  It will tell you.

Me: BUT I don’t know what time I should leave my office or how early I have to get there or what I have to do once I get there or if I have to print my ticket or an electronic ticket is okay.

H: …


H: (can’t even get a word in edgewise)


I won’t go on, cause I think you get the point.  I didn’t even get any comfort from my stupid boyfriend.  All I got was an “are you serious right now?” and a prompt adios.  He’s experienced my worrying before…he knows there’s nothing he can do to stop it, and it probably doesn’t matter what he says anyway.  I’ll still worry.

So Friday rolled around, and by this point my worry had climbed up to about an 11 on a scale of 1-10.  It didn’t help that a quick last-minute internet search brought up frightening reviews and horror stories having to do with no A/C, an incompetent driver, a broken-down bus, and pee smells.  It was official: my worry had turned into anxiety.

Anxiety is a fun word that I’ve started to throw around with abandon lately.  Don’t know what to make for my office summer picnic? ANXIETY.  Sad that H travels and I am left home alone? ANXIETY.  Hear a scary noise in the middle of the night? ANXIETY.  ANXIETY.  ANXIETY.

It’s awesome.  H, I think, especially enjoys that I’ve gained a new interest in psychiatric self-diagnosis (thank you, WebMD!).

Anyway: the bus.  I arrive with plenty of time to spare.  Time enough, in fact, to make a last-minute Starbucks trip (why I thought caffeine would help my mindset at that point I have no idea.  Hello, jittery!).  Momentarily distracted by my iced chai-tea latte, I start wandering around the vicinity of Penn Station.  And suddenly I realize that the departure point, which I so meticulously noted on a post-it, is sitting not in my bag, but back on my desk, 35 minutes downtown.


Disclaimer: Penn station is where every single bus on the face of the planet departs.  It is a bus orgy.  There are buses on every corner.

As my anxiety-hives start to appear and my heart stats to pound I arbitrarily pick a corner and a bus that looks promising.  I linger near it, trying to look casual.  It is now 4:35.  I see no sign for Megabus, no lines, no nothing.  I am terrified.

Suddenly by God’s grace I spy a woman reading a piece of paper that has the Megabus logo emblazoned on the top.  It takes all my willpower not to hug her.  Instead, I surreptitiously run-walk after her and follow this stranger approximately 3 blocks away to where I am actually supposed to be.  Joy!  The giant two-decker mega bus is sitting waiting for me….

And 100,000 other people.

Here’s the thing.  Megabus departs not IN Penn Station, but on a random sidewalk adjacent to Penn Station.  There are buses going to not only Boston, but to Philly, to DC, to Baltimore…pretty much every city on the East Coast.  There is no organization to speak of.  A destination is announced and there is a mad rush towards the bus door.  Luggage flying.  Sweat-droplets dropping.  Children crying.  Oh, and it was 800 degrees out.

Needless to say my anxiety didn’t dissipate, but instead grew.  After checking with some conveniently non-English speaking fellow passengers I found myself at the very tail end of an extremely ridiculously long line for the bus to Boston (maybe.  I wasn’t positive.  It was an educated guess).  My thought process went something like this as I made my way down to the end:


I am not exaggerating.  Thoughts of this nature actually go through my head.  And apparently, it’s not normal.  Who knew.

Anyway to cut this story short (because who wants to read about my psychotic bus worries) I made it on the bus, it didn’t crash, and I didn’t get brutally murdered by a fellow passenger.  It also didn’t smell like pee.  I made it Boston and had a great weekend with my dear sister.  The end.

…until July 4th rolls around.  And I brave the bus again.

Now who wants to write me a prescription for some Prozac?

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My boyfriend turned 25 last week.  That’s a big birthday, so I wanted to do something special.  So I bought tickets to a Broadway musical.

*insert sound of record screeching to a halt here*

Literally every single person that I told this to has had the same reaction: “Uhh…WHAT?  You’re taking H to a musical?!

Well yes.  Yes I am.  Because here’s the thing, guys.  H LOVES MUSICALS.

This is shocking news, I know.  And he’s probably going to be pissed that I’m blowing up his spot right now.   Because H is the epitome of Manly, with a capital M.  He likes sports.  He likes to shoot things for fun.  He likes to drink beer.  He has approximately 3 feelings in his emotional spectrum: hungry, tired, and annoyed (at me, usually, for being slow/late/acting dumb). Oh, and happy.  When the Red Sox or the Patriots are winning.  Or when he’s playing corporate softball.  Or when I unexpectedly clean the apartment.  So, four emotions.  He’s a complex individual.

I kid.  He has more than 4.  He maybe has 5, when he tries.

Anyway…the musical.  Let me first say that I am a sucker for a good deal.  And you know what has good deals?  Broadway shows that haven’t opened yet.  Because no one really knows if they are going to be awful or not, tickets are usually fairly cheap.  And thanks to some broadway ticket discount website, they were even cheaper.

So I bought tickets to “La Cage Aux Folles.” Didn’t really know a lot about it, so I did some Googling.  Turns out, this play is what one of my fave movies is based on: The Birdcage.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with the movie, the basic premise is that a gay couple’s son (had from a 1 night stand w/a woman) brings home the girl he wants to marry–whose parents happy to be big players in the super conservative family moral values political scene.  Hilarity ensues when the two sets of parents meet.  Now watch the below clip, and try not to die at Robin Williams’ Dance speech (at the end).

Yes.  It’s about gay people.  Actually, it’s about drag queens, which is even better.  And here’s a hint: the play? ALSO about drag queens.

So.  To recap.  Not only did I buy my manly boyfriend Broadway musical tickets for his birthday, I bought him tickets to a big gay men-dressed-as-showgirls jazz hands sparkly sequins sort of show.  Yup.

Exhibit B:

So I know what you are all inevitably asking: Did he like it?

WELL.  As the lights came up and the applause died down during intermission (or “halftime,” as he goonily called it) I turned to my dear boyfriend and asked him what he thought.

And I quote: “It’s great!  I love it.  Mary, you are the best most beautiful girlfriend and I am SO LUCKY to have you.”

OKAY…so the last part he didn’t say.  But he did say he loved the show.  Which is enough for me.

Happy 25th birthday H!  I’ll watch drag-queens with you any time.

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There are some things that my boyfriend does that I don’t even pretend to understand.  Fishing in Central Park, for example.  Refusing to take medicine when hurt or sick (very very manly, I know). Getting up really unreasonably early on the weekends.  And the tip-top of this list: going to Nascar races.

Yes, you read that right.  My boyfriend goes to Nascar races.

Now, as a disclaimer, he is not a Redneck by any means.  He grew up in a fancy sea-side town south of Boston.  He owns his fair share of Vineyard Vines clothing.  So it is even more mind-boggling that he likes going to these things.  But I guess it doesn’t really matter what your background is.  In most guys’ brains, Nascar = fun, lady-free, manly, beer-y pastime.

The reason I’m bringing this up now is because this weekend H is going to the Grand-pappy of Nascar Races: Talladega.  Yes, as in Talladega Nights.  As in Ricky Bobby.  If you’re like me, you’re shocked this event actually exists in Real Life (rather than only in Will Ferrell’s imagination).

This actually happens

But it really does happen, all the way down in the foreign land of Alabama (Roll Tide!  That’s for you, brother).  And it draws quite a crowd, apparently (according to H it is 80% dudes, 10% sales people trying to sell said dudes stuff, and 10% “buffalos” aka very unattractive Redneck Women).

Now from what he says, the main point of Nascar races are not watching the races themselves, but rather the RV’ing and the beer drinking and the male bonding.  The race itself is secondary and (apparently) kinda boring.  I mean…it’s 500 laps of the same thing.  The only reason people watch is for the potential crash factor.   And to me, that raises a basic question: how can you count Nascar as a sport?

With enough practice anyone can hop into a car and drive it really fast.  The competition aspect seems pretty dull, too.  In my opinion Nascar falls into the gray-area category of “sports” that aren’t really Sports.  Other examples?

1. Fishing.  I’m going to get shit from H for this (and probably his brother, his Dad, and his friends), but I’m sorry.  You do need some skill to fish, sure.  But this is mostly based on luck and patience.

2. Curling.  I don’t care if it’s in the Olympics.  A bunch of portly guys in overly loud pants (I’m talking to you, Norway) pushing things around an ice rink does not a Sports team make.

3. Hunting.  Another one of H’s favorite activities.  But again, this requires more patience and luck than skill.  I mean yes, you must have a decent shot…but if you really want it to be a sport, why not arm the poor defenseless animals too?  THAT would be a sport.

4. Professional Eating.  They show this on ESPN, so someone out there considers it a sport.  Do I even need to explain why I disagree?  That little asian man who eats the hot dogs does not equal a professional athlete.

5. Golf.  Great napping TV, yes (the commentators are always so darn soothing).  Great sport, not so much.  It’s a hobby, really. Just look at Tiger: you can be hopped up on Xanax and STD meds and still be a great golfer.  To me, that pretty much screams non-sport.

Other activities that toe the line, in my opinion?  Darts, Pool, Bowling, Cheerleading, Figure Skating, Rock-Climbing.

In the end I suppose it doesn’t really matter if Nascar is actually a “Sport” or not.  H is still going to go.  He’ll hopefully return home with wallet, cellphone, and dignity intact, but we can only hope.  He will probably spend the weekend like this:

God help him. More importantly, God help his liver.  And the people who inevitably have to look at his pasty bare torso.  H never passes up an opportunity to be shirtless.

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So I had a bit of a revelation this weekend. A little shining moment of self-discovery. The epiphany was this: I have incredibly bizarre and nonsensical rules for myself regarding clothing.

Okay, I know. This isn’t really super life altering. But it’s something that I’ve been doing subconsciously forever, and I think the fact that I just now am realizing it is quite a milestone.
So, newsflash to all you readers out there: I have red hair. And it’s not strawberry blonde or auburn or anything swishy like that. It. Is. Red. And it is said hair that has given me a clothing complex; a set of personal rules so ingrained that it took me approximately 24 years to realize they were even there.  So what are these weird clothing/fashion rules I have for myself, you ask? Well, let me put it in an easy readable format so that you non-Gingers might understand. As follows, the personal fashion rules of moi.

1. No red. Exceptions: shoes. And possibly Nantucket red pants/skirts/bottoms. This is a cardinal (ha! Get it? Red!!) rule of mine, for obvious reasons. Shades of pink and orange are also forbidden. Yellow too. Also any taupe/ecru shade that comes too close to the color of my skin(read: pale).
2. So what colors are acceptable? Earth tones–just call me Dwight Shrute. Blues are a go-to, greens are a little trickier ( kelly green, for example, equals leprechaun).
3. Nothing too flashy. Nothing with weird built in jewelry, deffinetly no sequins.

4. Not too many ruffles, either.

5. No khaki’s.  They  stopped being an acceptable form of pants in about 8th grade.

6. Sneakers are for exercise ONLY.  Not for everyday wear.

7. I have short little legs.  Cropped pants do not help this affliction.  Therefore, I have decided that Capri pants are not my friend.

8. Be wary of prints and patterns.

9. Pastels wash me out.  Neons wash me out.  Colors in general wash. me. out.

10. Nothing that depends on a nice set of boobs to look good.  This is self-explanatory.

11. And finally, if it is trendy, than I certainly won’t look good in it.  I’m just not hip enough.

It’s like there is a little tiny Tim Gunn inside my head.  It’s exsausting.

My hair and general coloring aren’t the only factors that have made me fashion retarded.  I’m sure the environments where I grew up don’t help.  My super preppy, super conservative, “I’m going to give you the stink eye if you wear anything ‘weird’ ” town/high-school absolutely contributed to my bizarre thinking.  Likewise my tiny, preppy, conservative college.  And I won’t even go into my two lovely but incredibly judgmental and critical sisters.  Why don’t YOU try bringing home something you bought only to get a “why in the holy hell would you spend money on that” look from your own flesh and blood.  See how confident about clothing you are then.

This is a No.

Now, my weird fashion rules does not mean that I don’t like to shop.  On the contrary.  I absolutely love to shop.  It is my preferred Saturday activity, actually.  I like doing it alone, I like doing it with friends, I even like doing it with my boyfriend.  I’m not sure why I like it so much, because it almost always ends with my leaving a store in frustration because I can’t find anything that “I like” (that is, I can’t find anything that adheres to my rules).

I’ve been trying to break free of these self-imposed shackles.  I bought a leather jacket in Italy last fall–gutsy move for me.  I also bought a salmon colored tee shirt a couple weeks ago.  Baby steps, people.

Absolutely Not.

The really sad thing is is that I have a feeling that all these stupid rules are exactly that–stupid.   No one is going to withdraw in horror if I wear a pink shirt that “clashes” with my hair.  No one will blink if I throw on a quirky little dress.  Hello, I live in New York City!  A place where I know that no matter WHAT I wear, there is always going to be someone who is dressed far FAR more strangely than I.

I just have to keep telling myself that.  I need to continue to inch out of my comfort zone, of what is ‘allowed’.  It’s an uphill battle, and my opponent is scary: myself.  But sorry, self.  I’m just getting sick of earth tones and blue jeans and flats.  This girl has had enough

Not even CLOSE to being cool enough to pull this off.

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