Momma Rust and Pauly Dangerfield go shoppin'.
I owed my mom $160. She said, "Hey, you need new clothes for California and I'm goin' to spend money for these clothes anyway, so why don't you just use that $160 and we'll call it even?"
I said, "Yes" and off we went to Southern Hills Mall for killer threads. Pants. Dress shirts. A new pair of jeans.
Today was the first time I went to a clothing store and bought "brand-new" clothes since... May 2003. Nearly 15 months. And that was a blue t-shirt at Wal-Mart. This makes me better/worse than you.
Clearly, I'm not much of a clothes shopper. In fact, I am annoyed when people talk about buying clothes or even their personal "fashion style" for that matter or any of that blah-blah-blah - except, of course, when my friend ________ does it (That's if anybody reads this and thinks I'm talking about them. I'm not. Insert your name. You're my friend and I like you. Honest. No, really, honest).
So, despite my dislike for such jibber-jabber, I'll write about such matters in my blog. Or write around it at least.
Basically, buying clothes is tough for me. Not in a "Ehhhh, I can't choose what to buy" way, but in a "Man-alive, I can't logistically buy clothes" way.
When I go into men's clothing sections, most of them don't carry clothes that reasonably fit me (admittedly, I am small, but I suspect this has to do with the majority of Northwest Iowan men being goddamn fat-asses).
So, I go into boy's clothing sections instead, but all of them are too tiny. Even if they did fit, I wouldn't want to wear shirts featuring tigers on top of Ferraris with "Makenzie" written in graffitti font. Also, there's no getting around it: trying on clothes in the boy's dressing rooms will always make you look like a pedophile. This has been proven through experiments.
Whatever. I acknowledge this is a complaint of luxury. I should (and more often than not) do appreciate my body size. Because I know in a few, short years, my cheeks will puff-and-sag, my neck will turn gobbler, and that inevitable gut-belly will rear its ugly head out of the bottom of my t-shirts.
Ehhhhh. I hate this blog. It's the blog equivalent of being caught gazing in the mirror. Or worse, it's the blog equivalent of those awful proud-to-be-different "Chicks Dig Pale, Scrawny Guys" shirts.