This gives me a case of The Anxiety every year… packing away the piles of winter-wear in order to take a good hard look at my summer wardrobe.
*groan*
My first serious error in judgment was going into this “un-lubricated.” Spring and summer-wear is no joke after a long hibernation period, and though mentally prepared for the horror of trying shorts on legs so pale they’re virtually transparent, I was not prepared for the not-so-subtle southern direction my form seems to be taking.
Time to regroup.
Vodka #1:
First, throw a sheet over the obviously distorted image reflecting a panty-clad person I’ve never seen before, here or in a dark bar. That task completed, I began the truly notable trek through 2 closets and 7 drawers of summer clothes.
[sidebar: to those of you who gasped at the thought of that much space being consumed by what is in essence casual-wear, bear in mind that I am/was from Houston. Necessities. Not gratuitous fun-wear.]
Soooo, let’s call it an hour later:
Vodka #2:
To the untrained eye, I imagine it might look as though a bomb exploded clothing into every corner of my 3rd floor. In truth, very difficult decisions are afoot: trash it, donate it, cut the price tag off of it, or keep it. My girlfriend Jenny has been up my ass since I bought my house to perform this little chore if for no other reason than out of a sense of decency. Hmm, wonder if she’d like a vodka…
Vodka #3:
Stroke of pure genius! I should develop a "support" garment… something along the lines of a full body Spanx apparatus… plus a girdle... with extra rubber banding in the middle... and a ¾-length sleeve to disguise my arms. And chin support. I wonder if there's a way to lift my ass off the back of my thighs while keeping it safely secured inside my waistband.
Then it hit me…the sudden realization that there’s no real way to fight Father Time. What! How can this be?
*pass the vodka*
I mean, I eat right; I work out every day; I generally keep my alcohol consumption to one type per day, I rarely drink beer anymore; and I can certainly blame my sibling’s mother for the shitty gene pool. Honestly, what else can be done this side of “the knife?” This isn't fair. This isn't fair at all!
Bearing in mind that every aspect of my life should be considered a cautionary tale and never emulated, I feel obligated to share the results of this recent discovery and research in an effort to stave off any surprise, and possibly your downward spiral into the murky waters of anti-depressants.
Brace yourself.
You should know that, eventually, you’re not going to be able to locate those once prominent abdominal muscles. The skin around your thighs is going to start to sag, and while inspecting your new gray hairs you'll discover that one ear is conspicuously larger than the other. This will all come to you while staring into the mirror from the toilet wondering if you're really done peeing, or if you just think you are... In due time your eyebrows will either become bushy feather dusters, or fall out altogether, leaving gaping holes to be filled with eyebrow pencil like the old woman at the Walgreen’s check out. There will be jowls. And most likely bat-wings – those stubborn flaps you once called triceps. You may have seen the last of your feet.
Kindly remove the stink-eye. That ends my public service announcement.
Returning to my newly pared down summer wardrobe, I’ve decided that the answer here is dresses. Lots and lots of patterned dresses that will both distract and give the illusion that I’m still exactly as I was last year! And by “last year” I mean when I was 24…
*giggle*
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