4.21.03 – village fighter

easter consisted of brunch at my grandparents’ house, a matinee performance of Stop Kiss, dinner at andy’s parents’ house, and an evening birthday party at our friend matt’s. this necessitated changing clothes four times, and we ate like hobbits all day – by the time we got to matt’s house, we were sitting down to Second Desserts. we came home to our cluttered hobbit hole and passed out before midnight.

some people turn to comfort food in times of turmoil; others use it as a crutch, looking to mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese or ice cream on a daily basis to provide comfort. for me, i’m not so into comfort food as i am a slave to comfort clothing. i’m totally addicted to worn-out levis, polar fleece tops, old sneakers, and ponytails. i don’t just put on sweats when i’m having a fat day, i need comfort clothing all the time. my skirt-wearing tolerance is about three hours, after that i get cranky and don’t want to do anything but come home and put on pants. i’m convinced that pantyhose were developed to subjugate women – i mean, how can one possibly think clearly when one’s legs are being squeezed by sweaty tubes of nylon? its not natural. my legs need full freedom of motion. no pencil skirts, no high heels, no un-breathable fabrics. no fringy bangs in my eyes or lipstick to be smeared and touched up again. i can’t even wear nail polish – the weight of the polish on my fingers is unpleasantly distracting, my fingers feel thick and clumsy.

this isn’t a body image thing. i don’t hide in over-sized t-shirts and baggy sweatpants. i’m still a slave to fashion. if anything, getting dressed is even more challenging for me – i want to look nice, but my body needs to wear the same jeans i wore the last three days in a row. thank god i’m in a business where no one really cares what the hell i wear to work.

andy and our friend duane are in the living room rehearsing a comedy routine for this charity event tomorrow night. i don’t know what the skit is, but it has a theme song that goes, “village fighter, village fighter, fighting for your village!” lots of guitar strumming. then cut to a series of musical farts (or elephant calls, i’m not sure what the difference is).