February 20, 2008 - Wednesday
Current mood: morose
Today I find myself in mourning. I could barely muster the strength to pull myself out of my grief this morning and get out of bed. Begrudgingly, I brushed my teeth, put on a sweatshirt and jeans and gathered my hair into a messy ponytail. In my state of desperation, the bright sun seems dark. The music I am listening to seems like sheer noise. And the cold winter air seems to sting my body as I jaunt out into a world that knows not the pain infiltrating my soul. It's cruel that the world can continue on, oblivious to the tragedy in my heart.
My favorite pants have died.
These were not any old pair of dress slacks. They were not designer jeans. They were not the epitome of fashion and style. My favorite pants were my men's flannel Santa Claus print pajama bottoms from Old Navy.
My sister gave me these pants as a Christmas gift a long time ago. My mind is in such a state of shock right now, that I can't remember exactly when she gave them to me...but I know it was sometime when I was in college.
These pants were very large. There were many times I would be wearing them, and accidentally flash my underwear to the people around me because the pants wouldn't stay up.
They were red flannel, with vintage Santa Claus heads scattered about, spreading Christmas cheer and smiles to everyone who gazed upon them. They were too long and too big for me, but I loved them anyhow. They tied with a red flannel drawstring.
The pants offered me comfort, not only on my body, but in my heart. They were what made me feel at home after a long day. They were the security wrapped around me when I awoke shaken from a bad dream. They were the protection coating my legs if I spilled coffee on myself. They were my best friend.
One might tend to think that, given the holiday theme of these pants, they would lend themselves to only be worn during the Christmas season. But these pants transcended all seasons. They may have been covered in Santa Claus heads, but they were with me throughout every season of my life, bringing happiness and warmth through the good times and the bad.
They were with me through breakups, make ups, spills, cleanups, sickness, health, laughter, crying, anger, joy....these pants have been a sustaining force in my life since that fateful Christmas day when I carefully tore off the paper surrounding the box in which they were encased. As soon as I set eyes on them, I knew we would be lifelong friends.
But the other day, as I was putting the pants on, I noticed something was amiss. And I gasped in horror as I realized what it was. The fabric had worn and I had ripped a giant hole in the upper thigh of the pants!
I feel like I am partially to blame here. I should have known that the pants were getting on in years, and I should have taken into account that the fabric would be vulnerable and frail. But instead, I was so eager for my instant comfort, that I yanked the pants up and they ripped. I killed the pants in my zeal.
This is not how I had envisioned the end. I thought these pants would be with me forever. And if they weren't with me forever, I figured they would eventually be shipped off to Goodwill, so they could bring the same level of comfort and peace to someone else as they did for me. I thought perhaps I would travel to an exotic location and accidentally leave the pants behind, allowing them to live a new adventure with whomever happened to pick them up. I thought that maybe, just maybe, I would one day give the pants to my own daughter when her first boyfriend broke up with her...so that she could experience their healing power.
I never thought their life would be cut so short, and so abruptly. I am so ashamed of my inattentiveness and my lack of concern. But I know I have to somehow...some way, figure out how to move on without them.
My friends, I admonish you, please be with me during this difficult time. Sometimes I need a friend to tell me a joke and cheer me up; and other times all I need is someone to sit with my quietly as I reflect on these pants that were taken long before their time.
Let's all raise our glasses in loving memory of my Santa Claus pants...They will be missed, but forever celebrated in our hearts!
Showing posts with label fashion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fashion. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Friday, September 15, 2006
Archives: And to the Emo Boys in Girl Pants
September 15, 2006 - Friday
Current mood: amused
Dear Emo Boy:
Please allow me to begin by saying that I love you and your kind. Emo boys bring a new sense of pride in male emotion. Where other men are rugged and tough, emo boys are not afraid to display their feelings through music, eyeliner, clothing, etc.
You are a group of trend-setters. You create the pace for other men. They are just slightly behind you in terms of fashion and appearance. You have brought back the comb-over. Where once this hair style was thought of as a method for the elderly to hide (or attempt to hide) their bald spots, you have now turned this follicle masterpiece into a staple of Emo pride. I love how you begin approximately 4 inches above the left ear, create a part, and then swoop the hair across your head. The rest of male-kind is slowly following suit. But nobody can execute the comb-over quite like you.
As much as I adore you, Emo boys, I must take a moment to share one critique. A piece of advice regarding one very minute and insignificant detail of your appearance...
Why must you wear girl jeans?
I have yet to find a boy who actually appears more attractive while wearing pants designed for the female body. Why do you do this? You have to understand, your body is not created like a woman's body. Women have curves. Women have hips and extra padding in the gluteal area. Boys...especially you skinny emo boys...your lower halves are basically straight. Although you may be thin enough to fit into a women's jean size 0 or 2, you lack the curves for which they were designed. What ever happened to the days of wearing baggy carpenter jeans? Those would look great with your black T-shirts.
I'm just afraid that boys' bodies are not the type to be showcased by tight jeans. And it is particularly tragic when you choose stretch girl jeans as a piece of your ensemble. These jeans don't even look good on women...why would you think that hugging every curve (or lack thereof) of your body would be a good thing?
Emo boys, let the ladies love you for your sensitive hearts and your mysterious souls. Let us love you for your brilliant hair and amazing eyeliner technique. Allow us to delight in your music and your troubled minds. But please, don't try to make us love you for your tushies! Boy butts just aren't that great. I'm sorry to have to tell you like this. I wish there were some other way...but please, I implore you....please stop shopping in the women's section. I am begging.
Just find some 28 x 31 pants at American Eagle and let that be enough.
Any woman who would love you for your butt in tight girl jeans is no woman who needs to have you.
Sit on that for awhile...It's for your own good.
Remember I love you, Nicole
Currently listening : Albatross By The Classic Crime Release date: 23 May, 2006
Current mood: amused
Dear Emo Boy:
Please allow me to begin by saying that I love you and your kind. Emo boys bring a new sense of pride in male emotion. Where other men are rugged and tough, emo boys are not afraid to display their feelings through music, eyeliner, clothing, etc.
You are a group of trend-setters. You create the pace for other men. They are just slightly behind you in terms of fashion and appearance. You have brought back the comb-over. Where once this hair style was thought of as a method for the elderly to hide (or attempt to hide) their bald spots, you have now turned this follicle masterpiece into a staple of Emo pride. I love how you begin approximately 4 inches above the left ear, create a part, and then swoop the hair across your head. The rest of male-kind is slowly following suit. But nobody can execute the comb-over quite like you.
As much as I adore you, Emo boys, I must take a moment to share one critique. A piece of advice regarding one very minute and insignificant detail of your appearance...
Why must you wear girl jeans?
I have yet to find a boy who actually appears more attractive while wearing pants designed for the female body. Why do you do this? You have to understand, your body is not created like a woman's body. Women have curves. Women have hips and extra padding in the gluteal area. Boys...especially you skinny emo boys...your lower halves are basically straight. Although you may be thin enough to fit into a women's jean size 0 or 2, you lack the curves for which they were designed. What ever happened to the days of wearing baggy carpenter jeans? Those would look great with your black T-shirts.
I'm just afraid that boys' bodies are not the type to be showcased by tight jeans. And it is particularly tragic when you choose stretch girl jeans as a piece of your ensemble. These jeans don't even look good on women...why would you think that hugging every curve (or lack thereof) of your body would be a good thing?
Emo boys, let the ladies love you for your sensitive hearts and your mysterious souls. Let us love you for your brilliant hair and amazing eyeliner technique. Allow us to delight in your music and your troubled minds. But please, don't try to make us love you for your tushies! Boy butts just aren't that great. I'm sorry to have to tell you like this. I wish there were some other way...but please, I implore you....please stop shopping in the women's section. I am begging.
Just find some 28 x 31 pants at American Eagle and let that be enough.
Any woman who would love you for your butt in tight girl jeans is no woman who needs to have you.
Sit on that for awhile...It's for your own good.
Remember I love you, Nicole
Currently listening : Albatross By The Classic Crime Release date: 23 May, 2006
Friday, September 8, 2006
Archives: Ah...Home Crap Home (Literally)
September 8, 2006 - Friday
Current mood: contemplative
Tonight was my first trip home from Nashville. It has been four weeks since my presence has graced the town of my birth, my childhood, my teenage years, and my early twenties…the town I have affectionately coined "Dequator".
As I entered Illinois, I was instantly hit with a pleasant aroma. A combination of freshly cut farm grass, mixed with manure from a range of various livestock creatures. Where normally these smells would implicate a severe bought of sneezing and wheezing relieved only by taking a couple of puffs of the ever-sustaining life force known as a nebulizer, tonight I welcomed them with open arms. The smell of grass is the smell of life for me…and the smell of manure is the smell of home (well, not my house…but definitely home). This is probably a concept only those of us born and bred in the Midwest could possibly comprehend.
Where once I was simultaneously bored and utterly disgusted at the sight of farms and crops and silos and combines, I now welcomed these features. I gazed to my right: corn about two feet taller than me...and to my left: soybeans. And I thought, "Wow. This isn't so boring afterall. Thanks be to God for crop rotation, for only a quarter mile up the road, each crop had switched sides...the corn was now on the LEFT and the soybeans were on the RIGHT. How....exhilarating!
My drive home was filled with…what else but music. And as I drove the music lifted my emotions in a vast array of directions. I went from misty-eyed conviction to righteous indignation, to self-reflection, to outright laughter. The playlist went as follows:
-Kendall Payne – Grown
-Adam Watts – The Noise Inside
-Michael Olson – Long Arm of Love
-Hyperstatic Union - Lifegiver
- Jimmy Needham – Speak
- Disciple – Special Dual Disc featuring 4 new (incredible) songs
-Ginny Owens – Without Condition
-Day of Fire – Cut & Move
I am pleased to inform you all that I am now suffering from an extremely hoarse and cracky voice as a direct result of singing at the top of my lungs for 6 ½ hours straight.
The low point of my drive home tonight occurred around mile 224. I was under the impression during my trip and up to this point, that the trip from Nashville to the afore-mentioned Dequator, was approximately 300 miles. Much to my dismay, around mile 224, I remembered that the trip is actually about 397 miles…adding another hour and a half to my ETA. I was pretty bummed.
But not for long, because the high point of my trip occurred around mile 300 when I discovered a Starbucks in Effingham. Who knew a grande Chai Tea Latte could once again make everything okay.
As I finally approached Decatur, I was hit with that ever-memorable scent of our fine town. It is the reason for the town slogan, "Decatur, we like it here." It is our daily sustenance and the way we identify ourselves. The very corn and soybeans I had seen only a few miles before, were now being processed in the thriving community I had left only weeks before. I was shocked to find that everything was exactly the same as I had left it. I suppose I was expecting some sort of ghost town because the city could not possibly thrive without my presence here. But, alas, nobody waved or honked at me as I passed through Mt. Zion and onto Eldorado street. And they have even started some much-needed roadwork near my house. It's good they're still concerned with making this town a better place, even though I'm not here to keep everything rolling.
One final thought: During my six hour drive tonight, I had a lot of time to ponder life…and I came to this conclusion:
Courage = Skinny Jeans
And I'm sorry to say, my friends, that is one trend I am not brave enough to try. This fashion fad is one that is not flattering to anyone above 110 lbs. And for those under this weight, legs wind up looking like bird legs or stilts or twigs or…you get the point. Ladies, what ever happened to wearing loose clothing that ever-so-seductively brushed your curves as you passed by a non-suspecting, but soon to become slack-jawed man? What ever happened to leaving something to the imagination? There is NO, I repeat NO benefit to showing the world every bump and lump you have to offer…and yes, thin girls have bumps and lumps, too….and they're not cute. And for those of us who….how shall I say….are not lacking in the calf and cankle department….these jeans are a virtual impossibility. Ladies, I implore you, please stand with me, and rise against this trend. I WILL NOT SUCCOMB TO SOCIETY'S PRESSURE TO SQUEEZE MYSELF INTO A PAIR OF TAPER-LEG, HIGH WAISTED JEANS…I REFUSE TO ADOPT FASHION IDEAS THAT COULD EASILY BE TAKEN FROM MY AUNT LOIS'S GARAGE SALE. What's next? Front pleats? Ankle length? Tight rolling?
**And don't worry, gentleman, an editorial on "boys who wear girl jeans" is coming your way soon.
Current mood: contemplative
Tonight was my first trip home from Nashville. It has been four weeks since my presence has graced the town of my birth, my childhood, my teenage years, and my early twenties…the town I have affectionately coined "Dequator".
As I entered Illinois, I was instantly hit with a pleasant aroma. A combination of freshly cut farm grass, mixed with manure from a range of various livestock creatures. Where normally these smells would implicate a severe bought of sneezing and wheezing relieved only by taking a couple of puffs of the ever-sustaining life force known as a nebulizer, tonight I welcomed them with open arms. The smell of grass is the smell of life for me…and the smell of manure is the smell of home (well, not my house…but definitely home). This is probably a concept only those of us born and bred in the Midwest could possibly comprehend.
Where once I was simultaneously bored and utterly disgusted at the sight of farms and crops and silos and combines, I now welcomed these features. I gazed to my right: corn about two feet taller than me...and to my left: soybeans. And I thought, "Wow. This isn't so boring afterall. Thanks be to God for crop rotation, for only a quarter mile up the road, each crop had switched sides...the corn was now on the LEFT and the soybeans were on the RIGHT. How....exhilarating!
My drive home was filled with…what else but music. And as I drove the music lifted my emotions in a vast array of directions. I went from misty-eyed conviction to righteous indignation, to self-reflection, to outright laughter. The playlist went as follows:
-Kendall Payne – Grown
-Adam Watts – The Noise Inside
-Michael Olson – Long Arm of Love
-Hyperstatic Union - Lifegiver
- Jimmy Needham – Speak
- Disciple – Special Dual Disc featuring 4 new (incredible) songs
-Ginny Owens – Without Condition
-Day of Fire – Cut & Move
I am pleased to inform you all that I am now suffering from an extremely hoarse and cracky voice as a direct result of singing at the top of my lungs for 6 ½ hours straight.
The low point of my drive home tonight occurred around mile 224. I was under the impression during my trip and up to this point, that the trip from Nashville to the afore-mentioned Dequator, was approximately 300 miles. Much to my dismay, around mile 224, I remembered that the trip is actually about 397 miles…adding another hour and a half to my ETA. I was pretty bummed.
But not for long, because the high point of my trip occurred around mile 300 when I discovered a Starbucks in Effingham. Who knew a grande Chai Tea Latte could once again make everything okay.
As I finally approached Decatur, I was hit with that ever-memorable scent of our fine town. It is the reason for the town slogan, "Decatur, we like it here." It is our daily sustenance and the way we identify ourselves. The very corn and soybeans I had seen only a few miles before, were now being processed in the thriving community I had left only weeks before. I was shocked to find that everything was exactly the same as I had left it. I suppose I was expecting some sort of ghost town because the city could not possibly thrive without my presence here. But, alas, nobody waved or honked at me as I passed through Mt. Zion and onto Eldorado street. And they have even started some much-needed roadwork near my house. It's good they're still concerned with making this town a better place, even though I'm not here to keep everything rolling.
One final thought: During my six hour drive tonight, I had a lot of time to ponder life…and I came to this conclusion:
Courage = Skinny Jeans
And I'm sorry to say, my friends, that is one trend I am not brave enough to try. This fashion fad is one that is not flattering to anyone above 110 lbs. And for those under this weight, legs wind up looking like bird legs or stilts or twigs or…you get the point. Ladies, what ever happened to wearing loose clothing that ever-so-seductively brushed your curves as you passed by a non-suspecting, but soon to become slack-jawed man? What ever happened to leaving something to the imagination? There is NO, I repeat NO benefit to showing the world every bump and lump you have to offer…and yes, thin girls have bumps and lumps, too….and they're not cute. And for those of us who….how shall I say….are not lacking in the calf and cankle department….these jeans are a virtual impossibility. Ladies, I implore you, please stand with me, and rise against this trend. I WILL NOT SUCCOMB TO SOCIETY'S PRESSURE TO SQUEEZE MYSELF INTO A PAIR OF TAPER-LEG, HIGH WAISTED JEANS…I REFUSE TO ADOPT FASHION IDEAS THAT COULD EASILY BE TAKEN FROM MY AUNT LOIS'S GARAGE SALE. What's next? Front pleats? Ankle length? Tight rolling?
**And don't worry, gentleman, an editorial on "boys who wear girl jeans" is coming your way soon.
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