When I was a kid, we went to see a parade down one of the main streets of Evanston's many downtown strips. This one happened to be in front of my favorite bakery, which was non-coincidentally the home of the doughy, bake shop soft pretzels that reminded me of my first trip to New York. (A bona fide treat pre-glutenmania, one might say.)
I don't remember much, except that we bought the chairs at the drugstore — even this, I am a bit fuzzy on — watched the parade, and at some point, my mom and I fell through it. Fell through a fucking chair. Was it because I was sitting on her lap? Was it because I was a heifer of tot proportions in my head and just tucked into a crap factory-made chair? Was it because I was actually a big ball of fleshlard and should MasterCleanse until my twenties to avoid social ridicule?
Honestly, I don't know. All I remember is falling through that chair, laughing, and somehow not being scarred for life by it, likely due to my mother's "oh shit, make sure she doesn't take this as a starvation trigger" instincts, but either way: a dirt off yo' shoulders situation. (In case that one sentence doesn't clue you in to how absolutely batshit cray the world of adolescent teenagers is, just search #thigh gap on Tumblr. Yeah.)
That was that and was all in the past until yesterday, when my dress tried to resign from its duty of covering my body. I kid, I whole heartedly kid about the wrist-slitting stuff because I have a terribly dark sense of humor and enjoy being a disciple of the Liz Lemon School of Ugh, but hot damn, what is it about seam-splitting that just makes ya want to pack up your things and check into a detox facility? (I have a million and one things to say about that article, so I'll put a pushpin in it for the time being, but yipes.)
Either way, I'm shocked that as a child and as a child-adult, I was equally not ruffled by what would typically launch a woman into the world of brain crazies. Maybe having a fuck-I-have-a-waist moment is just a gauge of how well-off you are in the head: my conscious brain knows a dress from the '50s whose hem has fallen out twice is probably the reason to blame, not that I generously poured homemade almond milk into my coffee that morning. (It's not me, it's you and your shit thread.)
I'm taking this one with a grain of salt, a pinch of optimism, and a expectedly overpriced tailoring job straight ahead. The crotch of my favorite jeans that's newly ripped out, though? That one's going on the mental backburner.