I'm going out to Joe's Pub tonight, so I thought I'd dress in something nice.*
After half an hour of changing clothes, I had to conclude that while it was a commendable goal, I don't actually own any nice clothes. Seven years of steady set changes across who-knows-how-many countries has resulted in one style: Frumpy modest.
Those of you who have known me a long time are thinking "Nonsense! You have lots of clothes. What about that happening sperm-print dress you wore to your 30th birthday party on the Frying Pan?"
Unfortunately, those stylish velvety dresses fit a younger woman, both in attitude and size. And whoa, are those skirts short! I bought my party dresses during the era of Ally McBeal. At 41, I am no longer so keen to bare my thighs in public.
After surveying myself in long skirts, short skirts, boots, sweaters, and tights, I dejectedly changed into jeans. Sigh. If I were the sort of person to post an online personal, it would go something like this:
AS-IS. SWF, 41, grumpy, smart-ass, silly, bizarrely out of touch with pop-culture items from large stretches of time between 2001-2008, smart but only vaguely interested in career or social status, offers a unique mix of fear-of-commitment laced with fear-of-abandonment. "What are YOU still doing here? WAIT, DON'T GO!" Past relationship achievements include coining the phrase "Who put the we in weekend."
*Disclosure: A cute guy recently asked me if all I ever wore was jeans.