Dirty Shame

I’m going to be honest and admit that I have quite an alright wardrobe. Something I’ve noticed in the past few weeks, however, is that everything I have is virtually destroyed. I don’t know what my problemo is, but it seems that I may be a toddler, and this is why I can’t have nice things.

Take for instance my white Max Studio blazer. This is a hand-me-down from Mama Morrow. It’s generally pretty fly, but the other day I noticed that it is covered in what is most certainly soot. I don’t know how this might’ve happened (perhaps those few weeks in 2009 I spent as a chimney sweep), but in any case, it’s disappointingly filthy.  I took it to the dry cleaner at some point last year, but clearly the damage had been done, and there was no turning back.

I also have a beloved Kenneth Cole long denim jacket that I got from an art gallery in Colorado when I was 16. This jacket has been through its
fare share of ups and downs, and I only have one original button left. I lost most of the formerly 8 buttons when I pressed my confused American body up against a brick wall in Perugia, Italy in avoidance of a freewheeling bus during my semester abroad. Don’t worry, everyone was ok, but my jacket buttons were tragically never seen again. (In an attempt at coolness, I found random buttons—dismembered from other clothing items—and sewed them on to the jacket.)

Then there is the issue of the dreaded pit stain. God help me if I want to go for the classic “jeans and a white top” look. If my white shirts aren’t covered in spaghetti sauce stains, the armpits are tinted a rather gnarly color. I don’t know what I’m doing while wearing a white button-down or flouncy top, but apparently it is similar to the strenuous work of a plumber or summertime-outdoor-window-washer. Really, I should consult my
physician in regards to this condition. I’m sorry I even brought it up.

And of course, there are the pants and tights that have simply split or torn. These are always fun. Nothing says “cry, Fatty” like putting on a pair of skinny jeans and watching the seams break away in vengeance. Sometimes I’ll put on a silky pair of tights that go just perfectly with my dress, only to watch a run slide all the way down my calf. “Son of a…

Right now it looks like I’ve got two choices:

  1. Buy a completely new wardrobe, or
  2. Pull myself together and behave like an adult.

I’m not Kelly Rowland. I can’t just go out and buy fancy new clothes whenever I please. I think I’ll just have to take my time, drink my coffee and eat my chocolate chip banana muffin with a little more patience, and hope for the best.


Mind V. Body

I’ve recently come to terms with the fact that I can’t have it all. If I want to go to the party, I’ll have to miss the concert. If I get the soup with my lunch special, I can’t get the salad (but I’ll ask the waiter, just to be sure).

A new issue I’m dealing with is the fact that I perhaps cannot be physically fit and intelligent. “But Lauren, that’s such a dated view! It’s 2011. You CAN be everything.” Shut up. Let me finish.

Whenever I am at the gym, ellipticalling, there is something on the television that could potentially benefit my mind. When I go in the morning, one of the two big televisions is programmed to something like CNN, the other is always on Good Morning America. In the evenings one TV is on a CNN-y type station again, and the other is on whatever channel Jeopardy is on. This may seem like a promising setup, but it provides its fair share of challenges.

“This commonwealth country has made polymer money for Mexico.”

I’ll stare at the screen waiting for the answer, the nerdy guy will move his mouth, but BLAST, I dropped out of lip reading class on day 2. Sure the questions are written on the screen, but the answers are not, and for this reason I will be forever dumb. Exasperated, I’ll focus my energy on listening to the music pumping from the Pandora on my iPhone. I may not know what country made polymer something for someplace, but I do know all of the words to the Teach Me How to Dougie remix featuring Sean Kingston, and I’ll be damned if that doesn’t count for something.

Tonight, I thought that since my Jeopardy endeavor only ever ends in tears and heartache, I’d give CNN a chance. Believe me, it’s really hard to know what’s happening on CNN when all you have to rely on are ticker tape and the split screen, but I was feeling ambitious tonight and thought I’d give it a whirl. The reporter was talking to Michelle Bachmann, but I was very confused. Which one was Michelle Bachmann and which the reporter? Was Bachmann the pretty brunette that let her locks fall gracefully over her shoulders, or was she the pretty brunette who pulled her hair back in a simple updo and wore pearls? Oh no, the other one is wearing pearls too. I became dizzy. Where am I?

Obviously, I fainted, and when I came to, CNN was reporting on how Herman Cain is leading the GOP race. There was an older black man talking on the screen..but it wasn’t Cain. Come on! I said outloud (because I had my earbuds in, and I always forget people can hear you when you have your earbuds in). Why couldn’t the lady do the Cain story and the black man do the Bachmann story? How were those of us working out supposed to know what was happening in the world?

I have decided that during my workout tomorrow morning, I will only look at the GMA TV, and only when the “Hot-O-Meter” or “Sass-a-Frass” scale thingy is up. This segment is easy to understand, because it’s mostly footage of celebrities with singular words plastered over the screen, like “HOT” or “NOT.” This segment was where I first saw that little girl who sings Super Bass, and I think we can all agree that this revelation had a huge impact on the world.

And when “Hot-O-Meter” is not on, I will mind my own business and listen to my “Return of the Mack” station, because I’ve resigned to stupidity