Here's the scenario: You need to go to Target, and you don't want to put on any pants. This happens to me almost daily, so let me throw in a plot twist to spice things up: you're on your period, and are 70-90% convinced that your uterus is slowly eating itself and all of your other vital organs like a parasitic alien. If you're the kind of lady with a uterus, as I am, you probably know what it's like to have twin baby tigers playing tug-of-war with a flame thrower inside your stomach approximately once every 28 days. If you're not, I hope my vivid descriptions have sufficed to jog your imagination.
Anyway, this was my real life on Saturday. I was tired, bloated, riddled with fiery fiery uterine cramps and generally furious re: being alive. But I needed to go to Target, because I had joined a couponing website that morning and was maniacally focused on claiming all of the bargains I had culled from the far reaches of the internet. Also, we were out of half-and-half, and Meg prefers to buy her coffee accoutrements from establishments that also sell nail polish. So I had to get dressed.
...Or did I?
This, friends, is my cat suit. 40% cotton, 50% spandex, 10% fluffy pink marshmallow shoes. No zippers, no buttons, no smoke and mirrors designed to give me a "waist" or make my "ass" look like anything other than the sad, flat expanse of Caucasian abyss that it is. Most importantly, of course, are the cats. Angry cats on top, space cats on bottom. Cats. Everywhere.
First of all, this is my favorite shirt in my personal shirt history. It is soft, it is black, it fits loosely, and it expresses a sentiment with which I identify at nearly every moment of the day. Exceptions include at birthday parties or funerals, during and immediately after (good) sex, on Christmas, Thanksgiving or Halloween, while eating waffles, or at the point of any major election at which it becomes impossible for your candidate to lose. These, as far as I am concerned, are the only moments at which mild to severe irritation is wholly uncalled for, and I'm glad to have a shirt that not only backs me up on this point but that also features my favorite animal.
Second of all, my cat suit is a good reminder of what dressing myself is all about: me! This cat suit is a big, unhinged "fuck you" to the internalized misogyny behind the nagging thought that "I really shouldn't go out like this." Why the hell not, exactly? Because I don't look attractive to others? Because people won't necessarily enjoy the sight of my legs sausaged into spandex casings covered in space cats? Fuck 'em, ladies. When you are cranky and uncomfortable and you want to prioritize the feeling of wearing pajamas over the feeling of looking like a put-together, functioning member of society, please remember that you don't owe anybody anything and wriggle right into those stretchy pants. After all, you're just going out to buy some coffee creamer and peruse a wide selection of dog treats for dental health. Even if you're a stylish femme at the pinnacle of high fashion (read: not me) you deserve a day off once and a while, whether or not you have a mutinous uterus. Hold your head high, strut right through those sliding red doors, and refuse to let your cat suit define you.
Or maybe let your cat suit define you. Whatever.
On my face:
Absolutely jack shit nothing, because I ran out of fucks to give and didn't have enough money to buy more after my trip to Target for half-and-half turned into an hour long shopping spree.
On my body:
Space cat leggings: Freeze, procured during a different trip to Target, literally given to me for free by an employee who either forgot to ring them up or was sent by God for this express purpose. Possibly because they weren't for sale. I can't find them anywhere on the Target website and am starting to wonder if in fact they were simply left there by someone who knew they couldn't appreciate them like I do.
Stay pissed shirt: A Girl Is A Gun, New Orleans
Watch: Topman -- which apparently doesn't sell watches on the US website..?
On my feet:
Osiris NYC 83 Ultra Skate Shoe, bought of my own free will from a Journey's at a suburban mall, unaccompanied by any child of the appropriate age to be wearing such shoes