QUESTION: When will everything stop feeling like a Jesus Christ Timeline?
LTR———//////ME\\\\\\\\——————PD (post divorce)
THIS TOO SHALL PASS. Make the most of it, and fuck it, tell the truth, part of the truth, and pieces of the truth that suck, or are funny.
Shallow Self Knows: I hate every item of clothing I own right now, including and not limited to, my favorite items of lingerie, my thigh high socks, and my Keens, except for my hoodie from Haeli, my Docs and my fluffy-fluffy coat collection.
Number #3 in the line of favorite fluffy coats.
If you know me, you know about my fluffy coat addiction. My favorite one, is one of those rare thrift store finds, with the $399 tag STILL ON inside the coat. Nothing makes me feel spoiled like spending $29 on a theoretically $400 piece of clothing.
Having expensive taste on a thrift store budget is an experience in resourcing. Luckily, I am highly experienced at resourcing, thrifting, remaking, stitching and adapting found items into wearable weirdness.
My brain, in a post utterly non-coital haze, has been spinning out. Coming up with self-absorbed ways to describe the internal grief-doom experience I’m having, and today’s episode, decided to liken my post divorce body to a postpartum body- because everything is itching me, cramping up my movements and nothing feels right on my skin.
INTERNAL CRITIC CLARIFICATION
One of my besties and my little sister have both given birth, so I also know, this is an incorrect association, and divorce isn’t the same as the experience of women’s stretched out vaginas, skin, and shifting body parts post birth process.
My life comes with none of the exhaustion, the physical trauma of baby life, or the sheer lack of alone time new Momma’s have. But fuck it, I feel weird. Weird, grumpy, frumpy, stretched out, exhausted, and nothing fits or looks sexy anymore. So we share a mindset at least, ok?
Don’t hate me. Or if you do, shut ur mouth and keep it to yourself, cause I don’t care right now. I am still just needing this self-absorbed blogging outlet to feel my feels.
STILL HERE? Read on!
I am not giving up on my appearance from sheer lack of sleep exhaustion- but I just feel utterly unattractive. As if I am pushing the fun parts of the world away with my energetic field. My sense of repellent kinetic sensations is enhanced by me coming home a walking biohazard every evening, post tattoo sessions.
Clothes dump straight into the laundry. All black and washable is my wardrobe. But fuck! I have days off. I might want to go on dates. And since the semi-accident, I cannot wear any of my halter top dresses, because everything still hurts. NOTHING FITS.
I called my fashion bug, Libra friend, and we talked for an hour about potential options. I was resistant to their suggestions, but have been learning not to immediately disregard their thoughts, because they have been single WAAAAY MORE than I have.
They are also just as self-absorbed when going through things, yet way more fashionable about it. I would die to fit into their wardrobe. Die? Really? No, that is a total lie. I wouldn’t even actually diet to fit into their wardrobe. However, I have, and will continue to, drool over their New Yorker fashion sense. (Is it even called fashion sense anymore? Or have I lost all hip queer chic ness by being almost married my entire mother fucking life?)
Also, for those of you imaginary people who love the phrase, “I hate drama”, I see you all. And I know ya’all be some dramatic mutha-fuckas, and I am here to tell you, that dramatic is phenomenal.
Absolutely nothing artistic, creative, or boundary pushing would be created if we humans didn’t like to be entertained and experience drama in our lives. Have you ever read a book where nothing happens? It’s sucks.
I love having dramatic friends. I choose YOU drama queens who can hold down a job, write a trilingual trilogy of queer BDSM, while actually being a total sexual prude, train your adorable pit bull to dance, your cat to open your beer, and look good in ripped fishnets and booty shorts while doing all of this.
Really, most of the people from Cristy C. Roads, New World Tarot, I would be friends with.
This Libra? She’s one of those tarot cards. AND I love the fuck out of her. She knows I struggle. She knows I fight to be selfish, I fight to choose the thing that’s best for me instead of other people, and I can barely pull it together enough to spend money on things I need, though I can go drop $300 on a friend of mine needing a thing, even when I have bills to pay. I wouldn’t say I was generous. I’m not. I am still though, socialized to put others needs before my own.
And this Libra knows it. She is really quite good at telling me what’s what, listening to me bitch and moan and telling me what to do. Sometimes, I even enjoy her suggestions.
Especially, when she’s giving me great advice- like, “Go just TRY ON clothes at Goodwill today. You’re on your period, this is the correct day to go clothes shopping.”
Speaking of… Do ya’all know the secret to period clothes shopping?
Next time I know I want new clothes, I go ahead and set aside a budget for my shopping choices. Mine was $80 this week, which is high for me, but I also RARELY buy any new clothes, and I needed a change. (I tend to spend my hard earned cash on bills and art supplies exclusively.)
Plan to go shopping, alone, just me and a mirror, on my period. I would choose day three, because for me, I am still crazy bloated and yet no longer a total crime scene. I can’t try on clothes when my vagina feels like a polluted river. (I KNOW, I know. My feminism is higher than this- I read CUNT for chrisake, I have a blood towel, but clothes are different!)
The goal is: the clothes must look AND feel amazing. If it itches, scratches, pulls, twists, if my arms can’t flap like a chicken, I don’t bring it home- because I will never wear it. (This is actually how my little sister got all of my stripper heels, because I never wore them, except in the mirror. Which would be great if I had a reason to wear stilettos in a mirror, but I can barely convince myself to wear Lipstick to kiss envelopes. Really not committed to that type of life experience.)
Try each item on twice. If I love it twice- it goes in the yes pile.
Take my time, go through all the clothing I may want, Shop by texture, and be really serious about what will FIT not what I wish would fit because how cool would it be to fit into a Gold Urban Outfitters Backless size 10 dress? (Let me tell you: that dress was a size six, and exactly where the cut out place was—- was where my back fat lives. It was NOT pretty. But it was pretty hilarious, since I like almost all of me, except that back fat experience. I feel like there should be a song dedicated to back fat. Far bottom Girls was a hit. Why not back fat ladies?)
Each of us, particularly on our periods, k ow what clothing will potentially fit us. I feel like my senses are sharpened, my irritation is higher, and I am way less willing to compromise textures and fit on my period. Which is the whole point.
Take it all home, and wear the fuck out of it the next week.
So anyways, I took her very good advice, went out and spoiled myself, and have spent the rest of this week feeling like a manic rockstar/seven old girl child. Which ya know… is way closer to being the protagonist in my own story.