Tag Archives: Clothes

This One Time (When It Was So Hot) 

19 Aug

There are two air conditioners on full blast,  and at 10 am it is 76  degrees in my office. 
… The heat in here has officially broken me. Two days ago, (because I couldn’t stand it anymore) I went clothes shopping. For shorts. Which was horrible in and of itself, minus the hit to my bank account…because clothes shopping is from Satan anyway…never mind when you’re being forced into purchasing an article you despise, on top of it. 

I haven’t purchased  shorts in over 16 years. I have never worn the one pj pair I had in public, even to take trash out or get the mail, because of all the body image things I can grouse about, my legs are number one. 

I have Fitbitted my damn ass off, and still have yet to achieve any forward momentum in achieving leg-awesomeness. (Which, yes,  I am extremely bitter about…cuz I’ve got a damn badge announcing  I just hit  5,000 lifetime miles this week,  since clicking  the fucker on my wrist, and you’d think that would be enough to counteract and retro fix a few bags of potato chips here and there.)

… But I digress: shorts. 

They are evil. 

… As are overhead dressing room halogen lights. And tiny,  helpful teenagers wearing a size 0 who want to help “get you another size” because all that weight you lost a year ago didn’t stay lost, and virtually everything you try on,  stops at half-mast, just under your ass. 
… So desperate was I,  two hours into the enterprise, that at some point… when I’d gone delirious from clothing OD, having broken out in a sweat which made everything even harder to get on, and look worse if I ever managed to achieve it…  I reached out to a sundress and threw it on the stack. 

A sundress. 

… An item I have never purchased in the entirety of my life. Ever. 

Because I don’t really “do”  girl clothes, and by that I mean: I’ll wear them if a costumer throws them at me, or I’m going to an Opening, but not on a voluntary basis. 

… Yet once on… besides the super-naked-underneath feeling of having nothing squishing my ass and hips like a butt girdle that is a pair of jeans…I hated the visual affect about 10% less than the shorts, so ended up buying them. 

Three. 

Three “summer dresses. ” 

One of which I am wearing, for the first time, today. 

… Which feels odd. And bottom-naked. And you have to move and sit differently. And I’m overly-terrified I’ll accidentally walk around with some part of it all caught up in my underwear…like all of a sudden I can’t be trusted to pee like a grown-up or conduct myself with correct dress-wearing acumen. 

… Because I only do this girl-clothes thing, kitted up in spanks and nylons, in a theatre environment, two hours at a time. An 8-hour day of willy-nilly pant-commandoism, in the real world, where breezes happen at whim, and chairs have cold or sizzling seats, and you can’t bend over into a filing cabinet without underwear-mooning the room, are things I now have to worry about. After I’ve learned I have to. Because something embarrassing has just happened, regarding those things, bringing them to my attention. 

… Which is all to say: I kinda feel like an alien wearing a suit of people-skin… all foreign and pretend blend-inny. But at the same time…it is, at times, a welcome breeze in the nether-world. *

(*Shout-out to my “Underpants” crew.**)

(**Which sounds way worse than I was intending it to. So, naturally I’ve left on purpose. But also wanted to make sure I pointed it out. Cuz “funny”  is only funny if you slam it over the head ten or twelve times, then point at it and say, “Get it?! Do you get it?!”) 

~D

Less Chunk

13 Mar

image

Am strangely content, shoving plain cream of wheat with a dab of clover honey down my throat, while paper-working this morning.

…This is totally only cuz I finally broke my weight holding-pattern this morning, and dropped past the 10 pound marker.

11.5 pounds down.

…Which brings me back to the weight I was, exactly this time last year…

…With 8.5 more pounds to go.

It’s been a grueling enterprise.  But with it comes a lot of benefits.  Such as: I’m less fat. My underwear feel less like strangulation torture devises. And I’m a lot less clumsy now, reaching back to working with the body I knew for all those years…before ballooning out. 

…Where this is a “bother” in day-to-day life, (accumulating extra bruises and getting wedged into tight quarters that didn’t used to be so tight), it is a MAJOR set-back on stage, where even your walk and total use of body instrument are seriously restricted and awkward.  I had to reinvent physical ways of doing things…and not in the “good” way…which particularly in comedy, makes a huge difference in speed and precision.  Also, corsets SUUUUUUCK with extra heft…I’m well versed in ’em and would know. Trust me.

Having  reached this halfway marker in pound-loss, is like getting to re-open my old tool kit again…and go back to using the toys I’ve collected along the years.  My old familiar friends.

…It’s also like beating a Boss in a video game, unlocking new wardrobe levels!

At last, new jeans! Well not “new” new, but new “ain’t been worn in like a year” new.

…This is why you NEVER throw clothes out when you gain poundage. And why you ALWAYS throw clothes out when you shrink.

To say, “I’m never going back to that weight again,” is all well and good, but if your willpower can’t manage it, your belt buckle will certainly help when it starts cutting off your circulation and you have no “next size ups” to graduate into.

…Least that’s my theory.

I’ve never ever been as fat as I was before. So this is a new concept I just made up…still in its beta phase. By all means: feel free to test it with me.

Meanwhile: I’ve 29 new contracts to work out today, the newest “Once” to catch up on (before Marty hyperventilates with hysteria waiting to talk about it with me), some Hanukkah and Ashkenazi Jewish research to do, and a work and run of Act 2, Scene 2 ahead.

…Better get back to it.

~D

Pant Wars

6 Mar

image

Ladies, get together with me on this:

Much like when they decided to go “universal” with cellphone chargers…allowing for ONE, standard connection needed for ONE standard of Droid phone and ONE standard (now erroneous) of the iPhones…so that instead of having to schlep and save 45 different chords, one could simply arrive at ones destination with, “hey, anyone have a charger…my phone is dying,” and one would readily be supplied with it; Much like this, I would like to argue for the same system to be implemented to pants.

…Pants, specifically…I don’t need to go all Nazi on every version of every clothing line from here to Europe…but surely…SURELY we could get together on some kind of universal pant-sizing.

…Because, as any woman will tell you: purchasing a single pair of those bastards takes far too much work, requiring us to get naked in a dressing room far too many times, in far too many departments of the store, with far too many brand-to-size-ratio differences, and often makes us far too depressed in the end to buy anything at all.

Ever since the skinny-pant revolution, I’ve been on pant-purchasing strike.

…On the off-chance that I find a decent pair of boot-cut that also fit over and thus balance out my thigh’s and butt, but don’t have me hula-hooping the waist…I buy the FUCK out of those bastards.  3…5…however many pairs I can manage financially at the time.  Because (for those new here), I’m a Latina, who is forever buying too-long shirts to cover my butt-crack popping out of low-rise jeans…even when I’m standing up.  And the skinny-jeans (aka “denim leggings” for those of us who lived through the 80’s the first time), are a fantastical and disgusting joke on a body build with any curve at all.

…Which is why I’d flatly refused to buy any more pants at all. Because, thanks to whatever “fashion” sets as the “new thing,” is what every one of us is harbored with. Whether our body type flatly refuses to conform or not. Listen: I’m still dealing with the last one, where belt loops and the top buttons end at somewhere five inches below your belly button, requiring belt-cinching hugging the bejesus out of halfway around your butt, squeezing for all it’s worth, just to stay up…while producing a mass of muffin top that looks like you’re wearing an inner tube under your shirt.

…I’ll be damned if I lower myself to the legging phase.

…Despite all that, though…I found myself having to face reality the other day, while staring in my closet.

Due to weight loss, (and general usage), of the line-up of pants before me, only three of them were ones I could actually physically wear at the moment. And did you know, there are 7 days to the week? That doesn’t add up. Something was gonna have to be done. And so, I girded my loins, and with a gigantic, melodramatic sigh, made way for the mall.

…Perhaps if I had been gifted the girl-shopping gene, I wouldn’t have hated the process so much. But I somehow doubt it. No sooner was I in the store, facing said pantage, than I realized: I had no fucking idea what size I was even looking for. I hadn’t purchased pants since well before the elections…and this was therefore going to require math to even come up with a doable guesstimate…not because of the time-lapse, but because of the amount of weight I had gained, and lost since that point in time.

…And after that, it was dealing with literal size label differences. This one is a 10, that one is a 32 x 31…and after that: the brand name game.

Everyone knows that “this” brand runs small, “that” one runs big…I’ve never actually physically gotten the brand right there over my thighs no matter WHAT size I’ve ever picked…and don’t even get me started about how the style of “straight leg,” “boot cut,” “flair,” “relaxed fit,” “skinny,” “petite, ” “curvy” and “regulars” do to the overall size adjustments as well.

…The long and short of it, had me naked three times in three different dressing room sections of the store, trying on up to five size ranges, ending in only uber frustration.

Tell me how it is that I wore a size 10 that was too big, into the store, but couldn’t even button that one label’s size 12’s? How does my inseam length change no matter WHAT pair of pants I put on…thus making me walk like a penguin with this one, and dragging 3 inches of pant below my feet with another? Why do they assume that “curvy fit” means your ass, hips and waist all equal one another in a cylindrical tube, so that in order to get something that doesn’t sausage or suck the life out of one part, leaves all the others with enough excess material (once belted), to accordion around you…feeling like a waist-version of an Elizabethan ruffle collar…or a tutu? Do they really still not understand how ethnic bodies of a certain robustness work in the clothing industry? I mean, pull one of my people off the assembly line, and fit it to fit her…it’s really not that difficult, you guys. It’s not like we’re exactly the minority anymore…neither in heft nor curve. We’re kinda everywhere…go to a Mall, I swear it to you!

…Anyway…roughly an hour in, I just gave up. I was tired. Tired of wandering around flipping through denim and Dockers. Tired of looking at my naked, dimpled skin staring back at me from the horror-lights of the dressing rooms. Tired of graduating in sizes after all the work I’ve done to lose this damn weight. I was just plain, “tired.” Period.

…So I stopped.

Three pairs of pants were just gonna have to do me. I’d made it work this long, I’d have to just keep at it until such time as I finally lose enough to downgrade from the current “tweener” size of not fitting into anything quite right, and my next-size-down wardrobe I have just hanging there, waiting for me to fit back into it again.

Enough is enough.

…And yet, this morning, as I ruffled through the same closet, looking at the same set-up as I always do: I picked out (due to curiosity and the desperate need for some variety) one of my other pairs on a hanger.

…I held them up.

…I gauged the width, and my current frame.

…I looked at the label at the waste, shrugged, and gave it a shot anyway.

…And the fucker buttoned and zipped.

Just like that.

A size 8.

What the hell, you guys?!

…Even with delirious cravings I’ve managed to smack down for the past three weeks, there is just no way, with monthly water gain, I lost up to 4 pant sizes in 4 days. It’s scientifically impossible. I know it didn’t happen.

…And this is all to say:

Dear pant-makers of the world,

Get your shit together. Get organized. Get some kind of through-line system going. Then please, get it out there into the fucking mass-market so we can finally, finally, FINALLY know what the hell size we are wearing!

Sincerely,

~D

Tunnel Tranny

26 Jul

image

First of all, this blog is in no way a personal judgement call on those persons who happen to genuinely enjoy decking out in the opposite gender’s accoutrements…for whatever means of pleasure it may provide them.  This is, however, about the appropriateness of time, location and circumstance for those who do it just for money, at my place of work.

…Which may be a little confusing seeing as I have often referred to this place as a public Brothel.  But it isn’t “really.”  The fact that we have our own Tunnel Tranny (like some people have their own Tunnel Troll) is not within the norm of our particular “business”…just so you know.

…It started several months ago.

Our offices take up a sizable plot of land, down in the port.  Busy traffic, and our neighbors, keep it safe and watched…I’ve never for a moment felt “sketchy” about working here, or unsafe in any way.  Ports are busy places.  And what with the rail right by us and the freeway, traffic is at a constant stream, roaring outside the windows and just down the street.

…But when it turns nightfall, I’d say this place would prob’ly turn into one the top ten places that you just don’t wanna be.  Too many shadows and large machines and containers to hide behind and inside and between…too many places to kill you and hide the body in. Too eerily echo-ee.  Also, we have this tunnel, a small overpass for the Amtrak rail that is literally just outside my own office window.  And a couple of months ago, a new phantom resident began pitching camp there, ‘tween whatever hours where we are not present. 

No one has ever actually seen him. 

…Which is really something, considering the span of hours we keep here, at the Bunny Ranch.  But we know “of” him, thanks to the wardrobe he occasionally leaves behind, and various other accessories.  We go on the presumption he is a man, given the size of his shoes, and various intimate clothing articles.  We go on the presumption of his “trade,” given the occasional cast-off makeup, accessories, fishnetting and wigs.

…He prefers being blond, for instance.  Short, curly cuts, most especially, but he does have an ironed “look” option as well. And he takes, “Maybe you’re born with it, maybe it’s Maybelline” to it’s most literal translation.  He’s not the greatest fashion-setter (unfortunately)…the other day we found a pair of brown go-go boots next to a crazy-print black blouse, and sweatpants. And his house slippers don’t match each other let alone his boxer shorts.  Also, he has substance abuse problems involving gross amounts of Rockstar and Wild Turkey (possibly together, possibly as chasers.)

…He doesn’t smoke (from what we can tell), but he does chew…which you would think might screw up his lipstick line at bit.  But I guess that doesn’t bother him too much, as we’ve no detection of mirrors…but he does enjoy a good morning newspaper. After a particularly disturbing appearance of a travel gas container, we’ve also concluded he’s either a sniffer, or a Pyromaniac.

…We still have offices though, so are placing bets on the former.

All in all, he keeps to himself though…his clump piles to his tunnel home.  Occasionally they redistribute into new grouping and staging areas…which we toss up as some kind of tunnel version of a multi-client house party. Occasionally they float a little too closely to our property line, but seeing as you couldn’t pay any of us decked out in full-out hazard gear to touch any of it, the piles remain as they stand…until such time as his next tunnel-cleaning, or orgy.

…Meanwhile, wardrobe comes and goes according to weather and season. This one time, he tried the life of a brunette without (I’m guessing) much success as the wig has never returned. And for whatever reason he sometimes leaves us Happy Meal toys out on the mailbox slab.  I think as a sort of peace offering. 

We don’t bother him, he doesn’t bother us. 

…And somewhere in his head I’m sure he feels more secure in the fact that we are here every day, watching his stuff.

We try to be good neighbors.

…But if he ever bakes us a thing of cookies and leaves ’em on our doorstep, I ain’t eatin’ ’em.

One must draw a line at some point.  And that is mine.

~D

%d bloggers like this: