Some roses wilted, some aphids took over a geranium, the kitty went home. I’m on it with replacement blooms and insecticidal soap, but I don’t want to talk flowershop today.
Should, however, talk about something, so let us consider weddings.
My sister’s getting hitched in July. Let the nightmare of trying to crowbar all this into evening dress and heels begin.
Did I mention I wear a lot of steeltoes and flats? And that I usually have stripey t shirt tan from gardening by mid July? (could be snowsuit tan this year, I guess…) Point being, even though I’m in my mid 30s, I feel like a kid wearing mom’s high heels and cast off 70s evening wear whenever I try to fancy it up.
Worst of all, I dance like Elaine from Seinfeld.
Yep. That person at the wedding.
All my ‘get in shape/learn to walk in heels/ finally figure out how to dance at social things’ resolutions seemed more attainable six months ago.
Surreptitiously practicing all my wicked sexy dance moves around the upstairs hallway (Janelle Monae, where have you BEEN all my life?)
Should probably just skip over the anger/denial/bargaining and accept defeat.
My sister DOES like fatboy slim. I could do a throwback to our dancing around the basement days and present a fantastic routine in her honour:
… and I DO own a pair of moonboots.
The more I think about it, the more it becomes clear: I missed my calling. I was obviously meant to be a dude. With an 80s hairdo. And mom jeans. And large glasses.
My animal spirit, Keith Apicary: