Historically, I’d never been a big make-up person. Not quite Tootie, not exactly Blair (as if!) I just sort of was. That is until Halloween of my sophomore year at ODU. This was during the Golden Age of NN8, when wall-scrawling was plentiful and drunken harassment of passersby far below our ivory/grey tower was the rule. My dysfunctional family of roommates took a trip out to find our costumes & otherwise run amuck in the vicinity of Military Highway, when, in Old Navy, Kristin shouted from somewhere in the store, “MER!” (that was me) “You’re going to be a girl for Halloween!” We bought a sexy stripey sweater, some black pants & black clunky shoes, and the transformation was made. I slapped on some make-up and learned that this new uniform could really work to my advantage.
The title of this entry really should be “The magic is in the black pants”. There was a time when I really did believe that have black pants, will have an outrageously fantastic evening, one which could very possibly end up with one of your good friends splayed out in the doorway to your bedroom demonstrating kung-fu ala Jet Li and lamenting their rap skills inferior to those of Biggie*.
The uniform totally changed my outlook on social interaction. If you believe you are foxy, then you are. John Lennon once said “The Beatles were the best fucking band in the world, and believing it made it so.” (or something like that, but the message remains the same). It’s not that I kept myself shut up with my 78 cats and a tube of cookie dough before I discovered the power of the black pants, My outlook on socializing just sort of morphed. Why not be nice to that girl in the unfortunately fur-lined shirt that’s standing next to you at the bar? You might need her to let you cut in the bathroom line later, and then you’ll never see her again. Ooh, which leads me to yet another sub-theory. Being nice to strange club-goers should apply to your own personal assets. Sure, your big ass looks fine in your comfy old jeans, but why not give it (and your legs) a chance to shine in the black pants? Those gi-normous boobs you’ve been hiding for the greater part of your youth? Let ‘em free for a night! You know you’re not a whore, so why not smoke ‘em if you got ‘em?
How many clichés can I fit into one entry? I’m going to stop now. I think we’ve cured the block. Happy Tuesday!*Yes, I’ve told this, one of my very favorite Leslie stories many times before, and I’ll do it again, dammit. It’s just that classic. (To me)
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