Would I have to start planning outfits around the tattoo like I plan for weather?
The other day when super mom Somer wrote, "I had accidentally put on that one pair of underwear that just ends up in my crack no matter what. (Note to myself: throw away those panties so you never put them on again.)" my mind exploded from the sheer "samesies" of it all and I blacked out for a bit. When I finally came to all I could think was "Whyyyy?!!! Why do we all do this to ourselves?"
From that pair of dumb jeans I bought whilst high on new paycheck or those shoes that should be illegal in most countries, I've got a closet filled with stuff that I secretly hate and plot to overthrow someday. But for whatever reason -- laziness, nostalgia, hoarder-like tendencies -- I will never actually get rid of these things. Instead I'll wear them while cursing their very existence. It's a vicious cycle that could easily be undone by a simple Trash Day. But, alas, that is not my life.
My current oppressors are as follows:
I bought these for a party I was hosting with a red and white color scheme. Of course, I waited until the last possible moment to shop for an outfit and ended up buying these cute Lucky Brand ankle-length jeans on sale. The catch? They were (and still are) a few sizes too big. I figured they shrink in the wash and I'd get at least an hour or two of "maybe they sorta fit?" wear out of them before they stretched back to their original size and my ass started to look saggy -- like I crapped my pants. And that's what I think every, single time I've worn them since despite all evidence to the contrary. I put them on after drying them on MAX and after maybe three strides I look like I need my diaper changed. But seeing this pop of color in my pants drawer every morning makes me happy. So they've stayed.
My Boho Phase
I bought this tunic from a bored teenager in Marrakesh. It was the first time I'd ever haggled for anything and I felt particularly powerful walking away from that stall with a still over-priced authentic yet touristy piece of history. So much so that eventhough this thing makes me look like that quirky high school Civics teacher you're pretty sure used to be a heroin addict I've kept it around well past it's use-by date.
The Shoes That Launched A Thousand Bunions
Remember that evil car, Christine? She loved her owner, Arnie, so much that she came to life and made him cool. Then she murdered all Arnie's enemies and framed it on some other guy. And then when Arnie's true friends finally figure out that the car was possessed they crush her into a cube so that hopefully she can't regenerate and murder another day. That's pretty much the story of these heels except none of my friends have tried to pry us away from one another -- yet.
They are the most painful pair of shoes I have ever owned. Every single time I wear them I promise myself that I'll get rid of them tout de suite, but somehow they end up on my feet weeks later. It's like how mom's talk about forgetting the pain of childbirth. Yep, exactly like that.
I've got a ton more examples of all the items that should be my exes. The H&M sweater thats so itchy it once made me break out in hives. The same one I'm planning on wearing tonight. And the Zara rain boots that I'm pretty sure have a hole in them -- if my soaking socks are to be believed -- but since I can't find the hole I just pretend it'll go away some day, just like the one in the ozone.
Why is this a thing? Why do some of us refuse to acknowledge what we already know to be true? That some of our stuff just can't live here anymore?