There is clearly a bone-biting chill whooshing through hell this morning.
I am my own woman; I dress for me. What is fashionable is irrelevant. What coordinates well with whatever else is of no import. Which designer duds will make my girlfriends pickle-up with envy does not make my clit twitch. Whatever speaks to Bertha Butt and whispers “you’re going to feel really good in me today” is what comes out of my closet. As long as it passes the sniff test and it’s absent spots on the boobage, off we go.
As I dressed for work this morning (on a casual Saturday, no less), I mused “wonder if I’ll run across — as opposed to my usual over — any interesting men today?” Lula, my subconscious (you met her in See I Told You So), whispered “I can make that happen for you, dahling.”
So, I — Ms Rabidly-independent-I-don’t-give-a-rat’s-ass-what-you-think — caved.
And I dressed accordingly.
I’m melting! Oh, what a world…what a world…