A couple of weeks ago, before embarking on a morning out running errands, I tweeted my plans to leave the house wearing Crocs and a Scrunchie. Because nothing says "Thanks for giving up before even trying!" like that top to bottom debacle, I figured why not also let my Facebook friends in on the magic about to be unleashed upon the suburbs. In both arenas, I suggested no one cast the first stone at me because, let's be honest here, haven't we all donned a fashion disaster and mistakenly thought we looked damn good?
(somewhere there are photos of you in rainbow suspenders...stirrup pants...an Ed Hardy t-shirt...)
Within seconds of posting, friends started filling my Twitter stream and Facebook page. One asked if I was sporting a traditional ponytail or rather decided to rock one on the side (damn...if only!). Another queried (nay - TAUNTED) "Is ur Snuggie in the wash???" to which I had to take a series of deep cleansing breaths before responding because clearly that particular friend doesn't yet fully understand how deep my allegiance is to the Snuggie (nor, apparently, my marginal disdain for Internet abbreviations like 'ur') and apparently, we need to work on our relationship before we can go much further.
Undaunted, I ventured forth and had a productive morning. I smiled at fellow shoppers. Made small talk with others. Clearly, I thought I was quite charming. So when I asked two women standing near me as I finished my shopping if they wished to use my cart, I was surprised when they shook their heads furiously, then rapidly dashed to the next aisle without saying a word. "That's weird," I thought.
Weird and also apparently horrifying because when I climbed into my mini, I caught a glimpse of myself, utterly disheveled, in the rear view mirror and my reflection screamed in horror a full 10 seconds before I did. Stray shocks of hair had dislodged themselves from the Scrunchie, making me look like a crazed Medusa. At some point between leaving my house and arriving at my destination, my pores had birthed a set of clotted septuplet zits upon my chin that were now screaming and red with fury. The top button of my winter coat had given up the fight, fallen off and run away. And OK, I'll admit it, my feet, encased in the once loving embrace of my Crocs, hurt so much that my face was pinched in pain, giving me the appearance of a dried apple doll or constipated baby.
I rushed right home, buried myself under my Snuggie, and vowed never again to leave the house looking such a fright.
Oh, yes, my friends, as my mom always says, I'll never learn! This morning, once again armed with an errand list and the false assumption that I'd not see a bunch of people at Target four days before Christmas (oh, hilarious!), I again ventured out of the house in a manner perhaps not fitting public consumption. This time, however, I opted for my running shoes over my Crocs (you have a pair and you know it), but the hair...well, the hair was still a bit of an issue. Sure, I pondered the Scrunchie for a few minutes, but the memory of how it let me down still haunts me, so I went another route.
Friends, today I walked out of my house and into the masses wearing a Bumpit.
Oh, I hear you out there with your screaming and your "Seriously?!"
Seriously. The only thing I'm teasing about with this confession is my hair. Forget Jersey Shore's Snookie. My big pouf is the next big thing. In fact, you know what? I'm going to adopt my very own guidette nickname. What do you think of these ideas:
D-Pow! (exclamation point totally not optional!)(clean STD test results also not optional)
Hard to choose, friends. So hard to choose.
In my defense - and despite the rabid paranoia I felt while assuming everyone in the health and beauty - oh, the sweet irony - aisles were staring at my altitude achieving head - I must confess I find the Bumpit to be ingenious! Will I wear it again soon? Sure, if by soon you mean in a few months when I work out a few imaginary scenarios of how it could perhaps fail me if I wear it to work. But sure, like my Crocs, I'm going to wear those hair gripping marvels again, and you know what? It feels good to get that confession off my chest. Or out of my beehived head, as the case ma be.
But chill out, Freckles McGee, because I've got another confession that could make thing potentially more pathetic than the pouf. While I, The Position, was at Target getting the situation with my errands under control, I wandered over to the music and DVD section, and without warning, found myself leaving the store a few minutes later armed with Foreigner's greatest hits CD.
I know, I know! But dammit, I, D-Pow! wanna fly, don't want my feet on the ground! I stay up, I won't come down!
And if I can't, thanks to my Bumpit, at least my hair will.
Labels: you wanna touch my poof?