Stop the presses everyone! I wore a skirt today.

It has happened everyone. Hell has frozen over, pigs are flying, and I, the Sultan of schlump, courter of comfort, wore a skirt today. You would have thought my more-feminine-than-usual outfit was a damn sign of the apocalypse given peoples’ reactions.

There was no occasion; I did not have a job interview I was sneaking off to or any plans after work. I purchased something, and then I wore it. That’s the whole story. I put no more effort into myself than usual, except that I was also wearing tights, which automatically means that you have to put forth a smidge more effort throughout the day, particularly with bathroom breaks.

Look, I realize that of those I most closely associate with, one of them should probably quit her job and accessorize for those of us who can’t accessorize for ourselves, one could drape herself in road kill and look gorgeous, and one knows what Louis Vuitton means. Oh and they all wear heels. Often. I do not. If I did, I would probably be filled with more rage than the time a gave up carbs and mostly avoided sugar for two weeks. Inevitably, someone would end up with a heel in the eye. By comparison, I’m frumpy as fuck, so a skirt is surprising.

Let me wear a skirt in peace, damnit! Otherwise my self-deprecating self will look myself up and down and regret the moment I looked in the closet and thought that red skirt I JUST FREAKING BOUGHT was a decent idea to wear to work. Allow me to demonstrate: When I got dressed in the morning, I didn’t notice that my new skirt really brought out my diaper ass. That’s what I call the kind of ass that is disproportionately large but doesn’t have a great shape; its mostly dimply, and abnormally unimpressive. Also, I mistakenly wore black tights with black flats which made me look a little like a librarian or maybe a nun, but I wore them because I’m weird about showing my legs. Why? I don’t know, maybe because my legs are an extension of my diaper ass and possess some of the same weird qualities. Oh and chaffing is a problem. Beauty is pain, right? Fuck you, no I don’t have a thigh gap.

 

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Maybe I’ll try this another time with better footwear.

P.S. I looked up the feminine form of “sultan” as I wrote the first part of this post. In case you were wondering, it’s “sultana,” but it doesn’t mean anything royal or authoritative; it’s another word for concubine. This is why the feminist movement exists, folks.

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