Funky? Oh, I Thought You Said Frumpy!

I realized something today, as I walked from my car to work. (Okay, I actually realized it a long time ago, and I haven't gotten around to posting it until now, but I know you'll forgive me for it.) So the thing I realized was this: I don't belong in New York. A woman in her mid 40's walked by me wearing turquoise jeggings tucked into black riding boots, a huge slap in the face kind of reminder: you don't belong in New York. All the people I pass are ridiculously fashionable; even the dour-looking, struggling actor-types with a permanent scowl wear their black jeans and long T-shirts in New York style, their vacant eyes staring straight ahead, walking that weird model walk. Kind of creeps me out a little.

Me? Today I'm wearing jeans I think I bought in college -- that would be the late 90's -- so they're baggy, wearing thin in places, and are that color that fell out of favor in fashion circles in the late 90's. You know what I mean, admit it, you had 5 pairs of them. Sneakers (at least those are Adidas), a T-shirt that's too big, and I'm carrying my lunch in a plastic Stop & Shop bag. That might fly in Ruston, Louisiana, but not here.

Maybe if I made an effort. It's just that usually I'm running late. Actually, I'm on time, which is late in NYC time, because you have to factor in an extra 15-20 to navigate the maze of asshole drivers that makes up Manhattan, plus time to park, so yeah today I was 30 minutes late. Remind me to take the train on Saturdays from now on. So moral of the story: I'm running late, and I don't have time. I usually come to work dressed in what would be considered my Sunday Best in Ruston, Louisiana; hair air-dried because I didn't have time to blow dry it after my shower, and dammit you're lucky I even took a shower, and maybe some mascara. At least it's not blue mascara. Wait, what? Blue mascara is back in? Aw hell. I need a stylist.