I am not proud of myself for writing this.
I am not proud of myself for thinking it.
It's petty, insecure, catty and downright mean.
I am going to write it anyway. And hope my mom doesn't read it because she would be ashamed of me.
I'm going to criticise someone's clothes.
Not someone famous. In my opinion, if you are a "celeb", your fashion choices are fair game. Don't like it? Then quit your job.
The person I am going to criticize is a normal person. Actually, I wouldn't call her normal. I think she is one of the bitterest, angriest people I have met in a long time. I have been her acquaintance for about 4 years, and she has ALWAYS been bitter and angry. And she has always had horrible taste in clothes.
Let me paint you a picture.
This woman is probably in her 60's. She doesn't color her hair. She wears it in a very severe pageboy, which probably looked fine on her when she was 8. At 60ish, it looks horrible. She also doesn't wear makeup, but to be fair, she has lovely skin. She's tall, and she's big. I would put her at a size 26.
Normally, I will not criticize a plus size woman's clothes or style because I understand the challenges in buying stylish plus size clothes. But she is so bitter and angry. And mean.
Also, she doesn't like me. She thinks I am a Pollyanna. She actually used the word "Pollyanna".
Of course, to someone as negative as her, even Bill O'Reilly is a Pollyanna.
Also, she hates conservatives. She said so.
She was a young woman in the 70's, when going natural was very "in". She obviously doesn't care about being "in" any more. Why should she? She is in her 60's. When I am in my 60's, I will not care about being "in". At least I am assuming that I won't care about it. Who knows, maybe I will. Regardless, I completely accept anyone -- especially someone in their 60's -- who doesn't care about being "in".
I normally don't criticise her clothes because even though she is obnoxious, her lack of style isn't really of interest to me. But yesterday. O. M. G.
Yesterday, I went to a meeting and this big tall woman with the steel-grey pageboy was wearing a frilly (frilly!) pepto-bismol pink top, pepto-pink pants and matching shoes and socks. Pink. PINK! Really, really, really pink. This on a person that seems to hate the color pink on principle.
She looked like angry cotton candy.
It occurred to me, as I was listening to her vent her spleen for the umpteenth time, that she and I are very alike, but very opposite.
We are both big, strong women. We are both pretty bright. We are both well educated. We are both readers. We are both moms. We are both forceful personalities.
It's just that we are so different:
She hates change. I thrive on it.
She is angry -- on purpose. I'm not -- on purpose.
She is suspicious. I am trusting.
She hates conservatives. I am conservative.
She is a bitter atheist. I am a joyful Catholic.
She doesn't care about style. I do.
She buys something because it fits, regardless that she looks like hell in it. I will go naked rather than buy something unflattering.
I couldn't help but think that my violent reaction to her outfit says more about me than about her.
Why does it bother me so much?
Are we more alike than I want to admit? Are we secretly twins? Am I looking at my future when I see her?
I hope not.
Please, God, anything but pink.