This morning the puppy got out of the house. I was cutting
up herbs to put into some new jars when I
suddenly felt a wintry breeze on the
back of my legs; I looked around the corner to find that the front door, which
hasn’t been closing properly, had blown open. Naturally, Corben was nowhere to
be found.
Pure, unadulterated panic overtook me. I ran outside,
slipping around in my furry slippers, calling hysterically for him. I dragged myself through the snowbanks to check fearfully in the road, where I was
convinced I’d find his twisted, broken body. I veered around the side of the
house, calling and clapping my hands. And that’s when Corben poked his head up
over a mound of snow: he’d headed straight to the park where he loves to chase
his laser pointer after the sun goes down. He ran right to me when I called
again, and I picked him up—all forty wiggling pounds of him—and went inside,
where we both sat on the floor, shaken by the entire ordeal.
Here’s why I’m telling you this story.
When I realized Corben was gone and made my mad dash around
the neighbourhood, I hadn’t yet dressed for the day. On Friday night I’d gone
shopping for some PJ’s, which is something I don’t usually do: it always feels
like a waste of money to buy a prescribed tee-shirt and jogging pants for
bedtime when I have old worn-out gym clothes that work just as well. But I’ve
been needing a pick-me-up, so I headed to the new Victoria’s Secret to see what
I could find.
To my own amazement, I ended up falling in love with a pair
of black yoga pants, sporting a set of bedazzled rhinestone angel wings across
the buttocks. I tried them on because I really like wings, and I needed a pair
of pants, and they were dirt cheap on sale. I bought them because when I put
them on and they felt like the fabric equivalent of a warm hug, I knew I had to
have them. Yeah, I think yoga pants should only be worn for yoga; and yeah, I
think having anything emblazoned on your rear-end is one of the most tawdry
things a girl can do to herself…but every
now and then, just for a brief moment, I find myself desirous of something
utterly girly. And since no one would ever see me in them outside of my own
family, I figured, why not. I topped off the ensemble with a super-cheap hoodie
with the words “I LOVE PINK” written in glitter across both the front and the
back. Because again, I would only wear it for bedtime and the people in my
house know I don’t love pink. But I
do, secretly, adore sparkly things.
Anyway, it was in this ensemble that I ran, with the
addition of furry slippers, looking for my dog. After the adrenaline left my
system and I was no longer shaking with fear, I realized that I’d given the
entire cul de sac quite a little show, decked out in my sparkly Victoria’s
Secret gear, bellowing and clapping and stumbling through the snow.
So then I thought of all the times I’ve wrinkled my nose
when I see people on TV, talking to the news reporters at the scene of some
accident or crime. These people so often seem to be wearing embarrassing
sweats, crude slogan tee-shirts, and never
ever a bra. I thought about all the times I would think, “What horrendous
trashy neighbourhoods do these people live in? How come these newsworthy
stories always seem to happen where these horrendously trashy people live?” And
now I wonder, if maybe just maybe, some of those poor folk were just like me:
it was their one day in months where they slept in; their first time in years
not getting changed first thing in the morning; and they had just bought those
ridiculous pants with the word ‘juicy’ across the ass on sale that weekend
because they’re just so comfortable.
And maybe when they looked back on the newsclip, they too had a moment of
redfaced chagrin as they realized what they were wearing.
So I apologize, all you jogging-suit-wearing,
words-on-the-butt, braless crazy-haired people I’ve judged all these years. I
feel your pain…your warm, fuzzy, brushed-cotton, rhinestone-butted yoga pant
pain.
I feel your pain ;) I've given the neighborhood a show once or twice, and it's always the dog's fault (or so I tell myself!) Last summer I was in the front yard wearing red Crocs (the horror) and ratty PJs giving him an impromptu bath with the garden hose after an unfortunate encounter with a skunk. Your welcome, neighbors.
ReplyDeleteIt's nice to know I'm not the only one!!!
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