A few years back, whenever I was having a rotten, terrible day I would stop by Old Navy on the way home from work. Maybe once a month I'd buy myself a t-shirt or a cheap skirt I could get away with wearing to work. This afternoon I tried doing a mood-enhancing Old Navy shop to no avail. I tried on a few cute skirts and was hit with the realization that I'm way too short (and a bit old) for most of the hip flowy skirt styles. I eventually purchased a few tees but I got no mental satisfaction. Well, I guess my days have been getting progressively worse and now I'm finding myself getting into the really hard stuff: bras.
I just returned from Target after having gotten snagged by the intimate apparel section. It was a wonderful yet horrible splurge. I needed all new bras ever since discovering that most of my 25 pound weight loss pretty much disappeared from one particular portion of my bod. Now I have the same new bra in black, white and red. Sadly, I'm roughly the size I was when I was ten. Truly pitiful. I am completely unable to wear anything strapless, or tube top-ish, or halter-style.
Language lesson time! Underwear in Polish is pronounced ga-cheese (I'm not sure how to spell it.) It's Yiddish counterpart is gotkes (pronounced got-kees.)
Another something wonderful: I've been talking to my buddy Mike recently (we dated very briefly last June; he disappeared but later surfaced in January) and a few days ago we hung out at this great little hidden-jem bar in the middle of Detroit. Truly a great weird place. It's a Vietnam Veteran bar on Cass called The Old Miami and it is awesome! In the middle of the hood (seriously!) this little bar has a beautiful backyard with a koi pond and a big tree with a rope for swinging and bird feeders all over the place. It's truly an inner-city oasis. Back to Mike. He's just a friend; it's much better that way, but he is also the perfect dark and brooding tortured soul of my dreams. He's about 50 times more sad and depressing than I'll ever be. I'm extremely attracted to guys like that, but in the end it's very emotionally draining and damaging. I have no one else to hang out with who's willing to listen to my wet-blanket tales of woe. He likes to listen to them. He also likes to listen to Leonard Cohen. A lot. I'm going to a Tigers game with him on Tuesday. Should be interesting.