Cootersnap!

I can't remember what I was reading... only that it caused my mind to go off on a tangential walkabout of no consequence. The brain lit on 'style' for a while. Personal style. A way in which you act or dress or come across that exemplifies your own unique characteristics. What does your wardrobe say about you? Your shoes? Your hair style? What would you *want* these things to say about you?

This was something I had to think about long and hard. As far as clothing goes, I really have no sense of fashion. My summers are spent in t-shirts and shorts, sandals or tennies. Last year I actually purchased two miniskirts, one of which I have worn once. And I swear it made me shamelessly flirtatious. Not my style. But a light breeze while wearing a miniskirt is a very very lovely thing, I will admit. Unfortunately, I was too self conscious in the damn thing to bend over, so into the far recesses of my closet it went.

Now, if I could get away with it, I would wear this little flowered dress every day that's been hanging in my bathroom for at least ten years. It's more of a 'frock', maybe. Something your grandma might wear in the back yard to garden in... if she happened to have a privacy fence. Sleeveless, cut just above the knee, loose empire waist with two patch pockets on the front. It's been relegated as my summer 'robe'. But long ago when I was a helluva lot cuter (and basically didn't give a damn about much), I would wear this thing in public, belted, with bloomers underneath and cowboy boots or my hi-top Chucks. Yep, I thought I was the sexiest thang in the world when I wore that get-up. Come to think of it, there were many absurd apparel choices that walked out the door of my apartment...

So. What do my clothing choices say of me now? I'd expect the words 'comfortable' and 'utilitarian' to be bandied about. Hey, perfect for Iowa. But what in the hell would I wear if I were to go to NYC, say, to a club? Oh wait. I wouldn't go to a club in NYC. I don't dance. Well, except for when I'm drunk and Victor talks me into going 'clunching' (don't ask). But you get my point, no? I'm not saying that I don't clean up. I'm simply saying that perhaps I don't clean up as nicely as your poorest Manhattanite, because by and large, feeling good is more important to me than looking good.

Y'know, the reason all this silliness has come to light is because of my neighbors down the road, Michel & Jacque. Last week while weeding out my lily beds in front, they stopped by for a little neighborly chat. They're a very sweet gay couple and were talking about the Pride Parade here in town that was happening the next day. Michel asked me if I was going to it, to which I replied "No, I have to work." A split second after I said that, I tacked on "But you go and be proud for me." Uh? Didn't cross my mind to say anything different to them, because really all I was trying to do was weed and perhaps I was just making vapid conversation in the hopes that they would leave me to my work. After they left, I realized something: these guys think I'm a lesbian. Hee hee!!

So there you have it. My neighbors think I'm gay (**not that there's anything wrong with that**) and I'm thinking they think that because of the way I dress. Ah, who knows? Who cares? They can think anything they want. They make really good cake.