True Confession: I dress like Mrs. Roper daily.
Yah, I know, shame on me for not being truthful in my first confession but whatever. I'm obviously working on it so give me a break.
So yes, I dress like Mrs. Roper and I'm both outwardly ashamed and secretly pleased. And I guess if all my years of schooling tell me anything: I'm addicted because I know it's wrong, yet I cannot stop.
Why is it wrong? Holy crow, I'm barely forty yet I'm dressing like a Floridian retiree who clips coupons for Polident and then tries to pick up the bag boy at the Piggly Wiggly. A bag boy who is trying to ignore me while he packs my cat food, denture adhesive, corn pads, and expired luncheon meat into first a paper bag, then a plastic bag as per my request (an excuse to talk to him really). And then when I follow up with "can you carry those to my car, tiger" while reaching over to him with one hand liberally slathered in White Shoulders, I purr ~ which sounds more like a death knell thus permanently scarring this poor boy who is just trying to save up enough cash for an xBox. Yet, I know I'll make it into his latest cheerleader fantasy because being The Roper gives me the ability to do this and I know how to use it. Junior will be sniffing caftans and dreaming of a Walmart version of Zsa Zsa Gabor for years to come. Rawr.
And that makes it wrong. So very, very wrong.
Anyhow, I can't help the fact that I find mumus (mumi? mumues?) incredibly comfortable and liberating. I never ever feel chafe from my mumu, my mumu never tells me that I ate one pint to many of Ben & Jerry's too much, and my mumu always loves me [does it or does it just enable me?].
But today I think I pushed the envelope. Whilst prancing around the apartment doing some cleaning, ~ because if you are going to clean, you might as well prance, ~ I was wearing the most hideous (yet comfortable, oh so comfortable) of outfits. And while a technically complete outfit is more acceptable than an undone nursing bra, I still should be a bit more considerate of my neighbours. For today I took my prancing straight out into the hallway and down to the garbage chute (truth: the prancing was suspended, I walked like a "normal" person) and smiled and waved at no fewer than two of my neighbours.
On my way back to the apartment, the teenage girl who lives across the hall came home and while I waved and gave a friendly hello, I saw the look on her face. The look that said "OMG, I never EVER want to grow up and dress like that".
And she was so right.
But too bad kiddo, it will happen.
Mark my word, it will more than likely happen to her. And on that first day when she remembers me, it will probably be the same day she plucks that loose fitting, loud print garment off the rack and exclaims "this looks soooooo comfy, and it's only six dollars!". And then she will think of me again, after becoming addicted to wearing this oh so comfy garment, for one day she too will answer the door wearing it and in her mind's eye, a montage flashback of all the major fashion violations involving unattractive loungewear will happen in a quick gut-wrenching moment. And there I will be, in my orange/black/turqoise/yellow/lime green
Perhaps I should stop scarring so many people.
Nah, I value my comfort over some poor kid's neurosis (even if I may have contributed to it) (omg, I AM an addict).