You should know something about me: I am a hoarder.
Well, okay, no I'm not. But I collect pants. Not so much in a "collection" sort of way, but more so in a "I can't get rid of these" sort of way. Because some day I might wear them, even though they've been in my closet for two years and I haven't worn them yet. But, like, I MIGHT. Ya know?
It's gotten to the point where I have to squish everything down just to get the dresser drawer closed. I'm like The Little Mermaid with her thing-a-ma-bobs in the cavern. I've got skinny jeans, flair jeans, jeans that are too short (even I don't know why I still have these. Am I waiting for them to come back in style?), jeans that I can only wear with heels (because they're too long), jeans that I can only wear with boots (because they're too short), jeans that I can't button but also can't get rid of because "I'm going to wear these again!"...and, ugh. Just, ugh.
Hoarders is going to show up on my door step one day, just you wait. "We hear you have a lot of pants," they'll say. "We're here to help." And I'll say things like, "No! You can't get rid of THOSE - I'll wear them again, I promise! I just need to lose fifteen pounds and start doing squats!" Stay tuned. It's going to be a great episode.
I love yoga. I mean, I'm not good at it or anything - I don't know what I'm doing, or how to breathe, and it took me a year just to figure out what "cat cow" was.... But I love yoga.
I love rolling out my little, pink yoga mat in the middle of my living room floor, and picking out a yoga video from my favorite yoga YouTube channel, and pretending that I'm confident and relaxed as I stumble (and sometimes fall down) through the twenty or thirty minute sequence of my favorite YouTube yoga instructor saying "just breathe".
I LOVE YOGA, or whatever it is that I'm doing on my living room floor (mostly just trying to twist my body into weird shapes and pretend that it's totes relaxing). It makes me feel good. But to say that I actually "do yoga" feels a little bit like saying I'm a salsa dancer after taking a couple of Zumba classes. It's just not the same. My yoga pants have spent more time grocery shopping and walking to 8 AM college classes than they have on yoga mats.
But we all have our "things". Mine is pretending that I'm flexible and mildly coordinated.
Oh, but not just any wooden shoes -- platform shoes. With a heel. A large, wooden, platform heel.
I KNOW. I blame Lizzie McGuire. Because I was fifteen and saw Hilary Duff wearing them in a Candies ad and thought that if she was wearing them, then I should wear some too. (They must be "in", right? This is Candies. I'm not over in the old lady section of Kohls- this is the JUNIORS section. EVERYTHING in the Juniors section is cool. I'm practically shopping in Hilary Duff's closet, I bet she wears these every day.)
So I bought myself some wooden shoes with a platform heel. Whoever said advertising doesn't work has clearly never met a desperate-for-style fifteen year old girl walking around Kohl's with her mom.
I bought a floppy hat before it was cool to buy floppy hats. I don't know if it was seen as "uncool", but you didn't see them in every single H&M and Forever 21 like you do now. Instead I bought mine on a "Fourth of July" sales rack at Vanity, and I'm pretty sure it was meant to be ironic. Like, "Oh my gosh, Karen! We should all wear these funny hats and pretend to be hoity-toity. It'll be a riot!"
Who's Karen? I don't know.My imaginary basic white girl friend. Because basic white girls are the kind of girls who buy those hats.
So, that explains why I own one. Obviously.
I was invited on a boat for the 4th of July a few years ago. Not like one of these party boats you see in Chicago. Not like a yacht that you see rich people have in movies. A little four person speed boat (are they called speed boats? I don't know. I might have just made that up. But you know what I mean.Like something you see the Coast Guard Search and Rescue team in.)
So anyway. I was invited on this Search and Rescue looking boat with my friend and her family, because we were spending time at Grand Lake St. Mary's... which consists of water so green with toxic algae that it has since been issued a Public Health Advisory. People have been hospitalized from swimming in it. A guy once walked out of it cover in slime. Like, slime. And I'm pretty sure I swallowed some of it when I was there back in 2008. But, you know, boating! Yay!
I learned to drive while growing up in a very small town. Like, the kind of small town Carrie Underwood sings about with back roads, Jesus, and dating the varsity quarterback. We had a "drive your tractor to school" day once a year. We had ONE STOPLIGHT.
Needless to say, we didn't have a lot of traffic. Because we didn't have a lot of people.
So when I moved to Chicago last month....... Well, I think you see where I'm going with this. There were a couple of things they must have glossed over back in driving school. Things like:
1) I don't know how to parallel park. I think they tried to teach this at some point? Maybe there was a video on it? I remember there were orange cones, but I don't remember having to actually park.. parallel-y. Instead I grew up where we had these things called "parking lots". And nobody ever held up traffic trying to squeeze their mini-van into a five foot slot next to the sidewalk.
2) The cab drivers play chicken with the pedestrians. And everyone is weirdly okay with it. No one seems worried that their about to die.
3) People honk. A lot. Mostly at me, because I drive like a grandma.
I wouldn't call myself a nervous flyer, I'm more of a nervous airport go-er. Because airport security has a special way of making me feel like an international terrorist. Not on purpose, it's not as if they're eyeing me up and down with a couple of pitch forks. The majority of TSA agents that I've met were actually very nice. But they have a job to do, and they take it seriously. Which is a good thing, because if there's anything that would make me a nervous flyer, it would be some crazy guy on my plane.
But - let's be real here - if you think I know how to make a bomb out of a bottle of shampoo, you're giving me too much credit. I write my own fashion blog and keep selfies saved on my phone, I'm not the kind of gal who would dump my salon-brand-argon-oil-no-frizz shampoo down the drain just to start concocting a missile. I'm WAAAY too vain for that.
But TSA figured, you know, better safe than sorry. Who knows? The next world renowned international terrorist could be a twenty-six year old girl from the Midwest traveling with fancy shampoo and wearing a Calvin Klein dress.
Because that was my real mistake. Wearing that dress to the airport. Who wears a dress to the airport? Beyonce?
I'm sure my dad wasn't the first parent to tell his teenage daughter "no" when she asked him for a pair of ripped-up, faded, holy jeans. "They have holes in them," he'd say. "Who would pay seventy dollars for a pair of jeans that have holes in them? I can't even donate jeans like that to Goodwill."
Dads. They just don't understand fashion.
I bought my first and only pair of "holy jeans" for the same reason that I bought a velour tracksuit (circa 2003) and a whole bunch of big sunglasses: because Jessica Simpson wore holy jeans and tracksuits and big sunglasses and she was Jessica Simpson. She was married to Nick Lachey. She was in that movie Dukes of Hazzard. She thought tuna might be chicken, which at the time, I thought held a solid argument. The can really does say, "chicken of the sea".
So when I saw Jessica Simpson wearing jeans with holes in them, I decided that I had to go out and buy some jeans with holes in them. Because Jessica Simpson made them look chic. And effortless. Like she was fashion-y, but she wasn't trying too hard to be fashion-y. It just happened. She just woke up, threw on whatever was laying around, and BOOM! Instant pin on Pinterest.
Of course Pinterest didn't exist back then.) So I didn't know what kind of "holy jeans" to buy. I had to rely on episodes of Newlyweds and the Juniors department at JcPenny to guide me on my style choices. Which is how I ended up with my very own pair of holy jeans - and they didn't come from my attempt at spending hours with scissors, sand paper and a copy of Seventeen magazine that featured an article about using sand paper and scissors to rip up your jeans. (This was a real article, by the way. I remember, because I asked my dad if he had any sand paper laying around in the garage. #JustGirlyThings)