Happiest Girl

I saw a woman yesterday wearing what I deemed a really horrible outfit. She works at my gym so I see her all the time.  She is a little on the heavier side and having lived my entire life on that side, I can tell you a really, really tight denim mini paired with shinny leggings and a green blouse that is so tight that the Michelin rolls are accentuated and the buttons pop is not a good idea unless you are auditioning for Jerry Springer. She topped off the outfit with obtusely pointed thick strapped heels.

I was thinking how to put her outfit together in a better way. Then the conversation with myself went south.

“What if she is confident in that outfit? What if she really likes it? No.  It’s one of those “I don’t know what to wear” kind of outfits.

Keep the bottom, change the top, v-neck instead of popping buttons, way different shoes, preferably leather unless she has a moral problem with leather and then her choices are limited and she can hide behind her ethics for wearing shoes that should never have been produced.

Less tanning salon/self tanner and way less foundation.  Eye make-up not bad, but a steadier hand would make all the difference.  Perhaps not applying while driving. I apply while driving.  Does my makeup look like that?  Not now as it is all over your face.  The sweat and the redness add a whole lot to your look, missy.  You look awful.  Who are you to judge?  I’m not judging.  I’m trying to distract myself because weight lifting is the second most boring activity after watching a video of Uncle Chris fishing.

Really?  Did you notice that you have a similar denim mini and might have worn it with footless spanx.

Oh shit. Did I look like that?  Oh my god, I bet I did. I looked like a whore.   A $1 Dolla Store whore and that might have been what I was going for at Smitty’s, but not in Strasbourg. Wow, that screams desperation.  What am I desperate for?  Youth?  My whorish youth? Yep, I’m trying to hold on to my mid-twenties. Dude, those were good times.  I will never wear that mini again. Holy shit, I hate it when I’m criticizing someone and I circle back on myself.  I’m horrible.  Who were you before Shaun?  There but for the grace of gay men.

I thought you weren’t criticizing, just distracting yourself by problem solving?

Shut up.  She’s just German.  She has no idea how to dress.  It’s not her fault they lost the war and were sentenced to bad shoes and a horrible fashion sense for all of eternity or at least until they get tired of being a a fashion faux paux and invade Poland again.  Who developed goose stepping?  Odd.  I wonder if I could help her.  Oh my god, look at yourself (doing lat pulls).  You have Michelin rolls too.  I know, shut up.  I have to pretend they don’t exist to actually exercise in public.

Your hair looks horrible.  Just get it done already.  It couldn’t be worse then what you have now which is four inches of roots.  You’ll not get to Hamburg in the near future. If Salvatore’s lady screws up the color again, you can always head back north to Martin Max. I know, low lights or highlights aren’t really a good idea in Krautland and there is always the risk of zebra stripes, but jesus, you live here, you can’t live 3 months out of the year with good hair and 9 months in hair Hades.  Even Persephone was only trapped for 6 months at a time.  And cover that gray or just wear that mini-skirt again, paired with the roots and the gray and its a stunning outfit.  You are a beauty queen.  Why don’t you just borrow a leopard print handbag and do your eyes in blue liner. Wait, that could be kinda cute.  No, it couldn’t.  In theory perhaps, but it would take someone far better than you to pull it off.  And thinner.  Bobby Kristina, you are too fat to wear that hat.  You suck.  Why don’t you eat more bread? You need to be here all week. Smile, damn it.  Look confident, like you didn’t almost just lose your pants again.  What happened to you?  If you were skinnier, prettier, smarter, better, faster…  If you just did things differently, if you only…. Get your ass on that treadmill.  Faster, Pussycat.  Kill.  Kill.

This is one of the reasons I hate the gym.  It is a place where my inner monster strangles my inner child and I end up killing myself on machines to feed that beast.

So after that 3 second conversation with myself, I worked out too hard yesterday and today, I have nothing creative to say.


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