Thursday, July 31st, 2008
multicolored shirt (which is far from my character), tights & red shoes, all from Target; shorts, from Ross; necklace, from Forever21.
When I was a little girl, I wanted long hair. I felt that in order to be beautiful, it was a necessity. But of course, my hair didn’t grow in this way, & I did everything possible to create the illusion that I had long & lustrous hair; even if it meant wearing a towel on my head around the house. (Yes, I actually did this.) I was about 6 or 7 then, & my mother would always tell me that I looked silly, but I didn’t care. My vivid imagination allowed my dream of lengthy hair to come true, even if it was in the form of a dingy, blue bath towel.
I don’t remember the reason I decided to cut my hair as short as I did. Maybe it was because I wanted to break the chains that seemed to keep me in the state of mind that “long hair equals feminine.” Maybe I desired to believe that being an enticing woman wasn’t limited to long hair. Maybe I wanted to prove to myself (& others) that I could sport a short crop without feeling masculine or awkward. It was a random mix of emotions that provoked me to go pixie.
Four years ago, after peering at images of beautiful, talented women with pixie cuts, I gave it a go. Quite impulsively, I went to my dear neighbor — who cut my hair at the time — & said, “Cut it all off. I want it all gone, & I want it to look like this.” I was pointing to a picture of an amazingly stunning black girl with a very short, very funky faux-hawk. My neighbor was terrified & she did her best to try to talk me out of it. “Your hair!” she cried. “It’ll be so short! I don’t know if I can do that to you! What if you don’t like it? Oh no. I can’t, Ev’Yan.” But I was more than adamant. Truthfully, I didn’t know what I was getting myself into either, but I knew that if I continued to over analyze it enough, I would surely change m
y mind.
There is a powerful feeling that takes you over when you decide to cut your hair shorter. (Or it could be me.) Being a [ex]hairstylist, I know this feeling all to well & I felt it almost immediately upon the first slice. It was a cross between sheer excitement at my rebellious decision & uncertainty if I could make it work, even if it looked awful. But I realized that this cut was limited only to those who had enough confidence to show it off, & I wanted to be that someone. I realized, too, that this would also make me stick out like a purple thumb amongst all the blonde-haired, blue eyed girls in my little town. But I didn’t care. Cutting my hair off was one of the boldest things I have done to shape my appearance, because there is such a taboo surrounding hair & women. & while I loathe controversy, this is one instance that I truly enjoy going against the grain. I guess it’s obvious that I ended up absolutely adoring my new hairdo.
I wanted to list the women who dramatically changed the way I perceived short hair. Each one of them, in their own uniqueness, inspired me to chop all of my hair off & when I begin to feel low & out of place, they remind me of my own uniqueness & keep me grounded. Their beauty has proved to me that hair simply isn’t everything. Their confidence in making such a bold statement provokes me, entirely. In short, they are my muses.
Audrey Tautou.
Supermodel, Alek Wek. She makes me want to go bald.
Jean Seberg.
Leslie Caron.
Nia Long.
Selma Blair.
Halle Berry.
Mia Farrow.
Michelle Williams.
Maggie Gyllenhaal.
Natalie Portman, who also makes me want to go bald.
People always ask me if I’ll ever grow my hair out. My immediate answer, & still at the moment, is No. There are so many perks to having such short hair. It’s almost impossible to have a bad hair day; it’s much cooler in the summer time, & make scarves much more wearable in the winter; short hair is much easier to take care of, not to mention it rarely takes me over 10 minutes to style. How could I ever go back?
(this post reminded me much of my shameless man crushes.)
Tuesday, July 29th, 2008
Au revoir, high-waisted skirt from H&M.
I returned this skirt because, truthfully, I never wore it. I was more in love with the idea of the skirt than the skirt itself. So sad, because it’s such a darling little skirt… but true, nonetheless.
I am probably the only girl that begins to feel guilty & sorry for her garments, as though they are dear friends of mine. I try my best to keep my clothes in a heavy rotation, so that I give them each a decent amount of wear, showing them kindness & care as the years pass. This makes me a weird girl, I know, but I love each little piece in my closet separately because they make my spontaneous wardrobe. (Much like trees make a forest.) Each one of items has a memory… & I treat them like trusty partners in crime.
This skirt, however, was not spared. The only memories I had with this delightful skirt have been frustration, for each time I put it on, I felt a tinge of regret & remorse because I just didn’t like it. So, I returned it to H&M. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get a full refund (the date of that said refund had expired), but they did give me store credit; a grand total of $37 & some useless change. I bought a purse (as seen here) with that store credit, having more than twenty dollars left over.
I do not regret my decision in giving back the skirt. I know that it has gone to a better place — right back on the clothes rack for someone else to enjoy more fully. Good riddance.
Au revoir, you darling little jeaned jumper.
While I rejoice at the sight of triple digits on the scale, I hate it when I become so much bigger that I grow out of my most favorite garments. It’s really a contradicting thing & I’m unsure of which I hate more: gaining weight to the point of having to give away my treasures, or being able to fit into the same things I wore when I was in 7th grade. (I suppose the latter would win, if I had to be completely practical.) Why must we grow up & get bigger? The money I would have saved if all of the clothes I have worn in the (almost) 21 years of my life could still fit me…
I really didn’t want to see this jumper go, but, alas… it was too small. Reluctantly, I laid it to rest at the nearest thrift shop, hoping that it would find happiness & bliss with some one else. If not… oh well.
Au revoir, my amazingly comfortable linen, pleated shorts.
The only reason I was rid of these shorts was because these shorts wrinkled too quickly, & I hate ironing; absolutely loathe the chore. Moreover, I hate spending ample time ironing, only to sit down for 30 minutes & find that the wrinkles are back. One day of wear in those shorts made me look like I got hit by a bus & dragged a few miles.
Thankfully, Target has a wonderful return policy & they paid me back in full for the shorts, in spite of the obvious wrinkles. If I can find shorts of the same concept somewhere else that are made of a different fabric, I will definitely purchase them.
For now, though, no more impulse buying for me.
With an exception of the jeaned jumper, which was purchased ages ago, everything I have returned & given away over the last several weeks have all been impulse buys. It’s a terrible habit; I see something seemingly fabulous on a rack somewhere & instantly buy it, not even once thinking of what I could possibly pair it with in my closet, or if I even like it. But I feel like I must have it in my wardrobe because, well… I don’t have anything like that. Terrible.
I think it’s safe to say that I now have a very good idea of what my style involves. I am realizing more & more that I am very simple (with a touch of androgynous-ness) in my fashion statements & I tend to shy away from frilly, girly things, unless I am in the mood for feeling extra femme. Thus, the reason I gave that skirt back. I feel a bit shameful for admitting that the skirt was too girly for me, but indeed it was. Never again will I forsake my personal taste just for the thrill of buying something new.
I have certainly learned my lesson.
(but really… does any of this really matter?)
Friday, July 25th, 2008
Sadly — very, very sadly — our beautiful, wonderful apartment home is being foreclosed. I wish I could put into decent words how I feel about this, but I can’t. In short, I am slightly devastated & just a little bit angry. (Just a teeny bit.)
We found out this terrible news through text message, of all the annoyingly modern, “convenient” ways to tell someone. Lover found out first; his conversation with me about it started with: “Babe… I have bad news.” I loathe it when someone says this, but especially Lover, because when he says it’s bad news, it’s horrible news. He went on to tell me that the Realtor sent him a message saying that the bank now owns our apartment house & we have 30 days to vacate the premises, after they post a written notice on the residence.
Imagine that. What a completely shocking thing to be notified about. (& on text message, of all the maddening things!) There was no warning; no indication that this might happen to us. & while I am fretting, Lover is barely flinching. To him, we have more than enough time to sort this out, to find a new apartment. As for me… I am scrambling; I am stressing. But I am trying my damnedest to keep a steady head & not become a raging worry wart, which just so happens to be one of my most shameful (but best) qualities
I was speaking to a fellow tenant of ours last night about this whole ordeal & he said that while he is as angry as I am about the shadiness of these events, he is looking forward to finding a new place. He says it’s like shopping. He said: “I love to take my time & search for places in different towns & cities. You know, if you think of it like shopping, you’ll have a great time with it.” & I replied, “But… I hate shopping.” He laughed, astounded at this, & said, “Well, then… that is a problem, isn’t it?” I concur.
To calm my nerves, I stayed up late last night to paint.
When I had first started the picture, it was looking a lot like a piece of shit — I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true — but I managed to keep my wits about me & it is turning into a colorful, whimsical, full of potential kind of piece. It’s taken me more than 3 months to actually attempt to finish, & I am not yet done. I think it’s turning out quite lovely.
Although… I wish I could be a better painter. I feel a bit stuck with resorting to modest abstract paintings, since I cannot draw for the life of me. I have tried, yes; I once painted a picture of a black stiletto next to a tube of mascara with its brush. (I was mimicking a Clinique ad I saw in a magazine.) Underneath the picture I wrote in French “The Stiletto & The Mascara.” For a first try, it looked well enough; almost impressive. But taking that out of the equation, it was pretty awful.
While I was painting, I had the strongest, strangest urge to smoke a cigarette, as though it would spark more imagination in my mind. Come to think of it, I almost lit one up. I started to walk towards Lover’s bag, where he keeps the Cancer sticks, & had to stop myself & ask, What ARE you doing? You don’t smoke! & indoors of all places! Go sit down, for Heaven’s sake. I realized then that when I get terribly stressed & restless, like last night, that is when I crave cigarettes most. While I am not a smoker, the cravings become so strong that I have lucid dreams about it. Actually, I wrote about my obsession with cigarettes & smoking once before. I am ashamed to say that it’s only gotten worse since then. Even now, I’d love to nurse one…
& because I haven’t been creative enough to make a decent fashion statement lately — it’s been tights & shorts all week, which is more than played out but doesn’t phase me — I wore my painting instead, clad in nothing but paint & bed-head. I can never create art without it ending up all over the place, including my neck, my arms, my legs & my face.
I sleep much better when I let out my anguish with the help of vibrant colors & a stiff brush.
Tuesday, July 22nd, 2008
It’s come to my attention that I hate conformity. Even if I am leaning more towards liking something that is very conventional & mainstream, I will either talk myself out of liking it… or I will make use of it in an unconventional way. This goes for music, clothing, jewelry, food & other things. I just don’t like seeming like a follower; like I’m going along with everyone else. I’d rather be a leader.
This isn’t to say that I call myself a Leader; the noble & stressful task of being a sole decision maker frightens me. No, I’d much rather accidentally be a leader. In that very effortless, casual, “Who? me?” sort of way. If I could lead without intentionally trying to, I would feel accomplished. If I could change people’s opinions about themselves, giving them something to think about, if I could influence someone in a positive way, be it physically or emotionally, I would feel absolutely honored. If I could quiet the useless mutterings of conformity in this society, & if I could do this based on my personal experiences & thoughts, while recording them diligently in this diary… I would feel utterly blessed. Maybe this is my true calling.
My mother always said that I had a gift with my words & mannerisms. Aside from looks, I think that would be the next thing people would notice about me: the articulate way that I speak & personable manner in which I open myself up to people & let them in; I wear my heart on my sleeve, so to speak. I care too much & this often gets me into emotional trouble. I think that is why I have a tendency to try to convince myself that helping a certain someone wouldn’t be beneficial; that is… if they have a bit of trouble regarding love or relationships, it’s better to be kind & butt out, than get totally involved in something that I have no power in really changing. I know this based on experience. When I get emotionally involved in someone & in their story, I cannot let it go. I will take them & their problems underneath my wing, wrap my head around their issues several times & never cease to try to fix everything. It’s a dangerous trait of mine, but one I am learning to accept as a gift & not so much a curse.
I am not bragging; I suppose I’m just being practical & very thankful that I have the ability to make people listen to me; something that I haven’t really noticed until recently. All thanks to this honest & eager diary of mine. I don’t know if I realize what I got myself into, really; with this diary & within this entry now.
I also noticed that ever since my entry about beauty — which was not at all meant to be a soapbox edition of attention & complaints — I have shied away from saying certain things for fear that I will seem pretentious & self-centered. & while I know that these things are not true, that I am very humble & modest & meek in my abilities to bring attention to myself, sub-consciously I have been feeling guilty. My husband called me beautiful the other day & after that, he immediately followed with a “Sorry, I know how much you hate that.” & while I understand why he would say that — I was really irate & passionate about everything that was said in my beauty post; I still am — I felt a little sad. I thought, Gosh… did I go about this in the wrong way? Because now I feel like am being misunderstood.
That got me into thinking: words are extremely powerful. I think they may even be more powerful than beauty itself. Because, words can be implied directly or indirectly; they can be mysterious & touching; they can bold & melancholy; they can nonchalant & intriguing; they can be silent & revealing. Which then got me into thinking that I should choose my own words wisely, in any situation, because I’ve seen that they have an obvious power to them. Always, my intention is only to stir up creativity. Most of the time, I am just thinking out loud, contrary to popular belief.
I am sporadic in my words today because my mind is a muddled mess of ideas & interesting thought processes. The proof in that is in the way that I wrote it all down here; if I can write something in 10 minutes flat, without much editting or brooding, then it’s coming completely from my heart & not so much my brain. Which means… this is a real, honest to goodness diary entry, revealing my innermost thoughts & notions.
Also… this is my 100th entry.
t-shirt, from American Apparel; pants are thrifted; shoes, from Ross; headband, from Target; jewelry is miscellaneous.
Monday, July 21st, 2008
t-shirt, from American Apparel; shorts & sandals, from Ross; tights, from Target; scarf used to be my sister’s sarong.
I feel a little awkward taking photographs of myself & my outfits right after my previous controversial post about beauty. I hate to seem the least bit vainglorious or — heaven forbid! — hypocritical. & to be honest, if that is how I seem… I just don’t care. My head is still spinning about that topic but, life (as I know it) must go on, & to dwell on something that will never have complete clarification anyway is not only a waste of my time, but a waste of my energy. For all of my thoughts were dwelling on this complicated subject for months & months, & I am so tired, exhausted rather, of thinking about it. Instead, I am trying to find serenity in knowing that I have had my say, as lengthy & irate as it was, & have laid my words to rest here, in my most safest space.
All of that aside: Over the last few months, I have realized that I am a very simple girl; much more simple, I think, than I ever really knew. Just based on my last few shopping trips, I have come to see that I have a tendency to go more for minimalistic & conservative outfits. Most of the items in my closet have no prints or patterns, & I tend to lean more towards clean cuts & modest styles. I prefer it this way. My husband thinks I should dress a little bit more… funky. But I am growing to really adore my personal style more & more. It may not be terribly original or awe-worthy, but it is my own. Not to mention, I have an uncanny way of styling myself on a frugal budget! That is an art, in & of itself.
Friday, July 18th, 2008
I’ve been pondering over the word “beautiful” & have been trying to collect my thoughts surrounding its myths & misconceptions. It’s true that everyone wants to be considered beautiful or charming. Everyone, I’m sure, has wished they could be someone else. All because the grass seems greener on the other side of things. I am certainly guilty of these thoughts & I’m not too ashamed to admit that. Well, maybe just a little.
Talking about “beauty” is difficult for me; I want everyone to know this. I can never find the right words to describe my feelings on the matter. Even now, I am stuttering over my thoughts as though I am speaking them out loud. Beauty has so much relevance in this world, which makes it extremely powerful & impacting. To not be “beautiful” is to be shunned & looked over; to be unattractive (not just physically, but mentally) is to be lonely & undesirable. This cruel world is doing numbers on the minds of women because of these cosmetic judgments. For instance, I think it’s a shame that one must be a certain size to be the acceptable weight; not too thin, not too “fat.” I find it hard to stomach the fact that most plus size models are a size 5. How can that be? I wear a size 5; does this mean I am plus size? This whole idea of beauty & weight & appearance makes me terribly distressed; not just for me, but for others.
I will not lie that this whole subject boils me even more so because, with my outward appearance, there is a bit of a misconception that none of this would be of any concern to me. I suppose I have no real reason to complain, depending on how you look at it. But that’s what troubles me most: why shouldn’t I complain? Does it make me a strange girl to be irked by the amount of pressure that is put on me — by my family, mostly — to be the pretty one? Am I weird to be bothered by suffocating compliments by strangers? Is there something wrong with me that instead of enjoying this attention that I find it disgusting & materialistic?
This so-called “beauty” comes with a price. I’ve been in scary situations where I have been followed in stores by gawking men, holding their crotches & making grunting noises in their throats. I’ve had men in their 60s strike up conversations with me, just to see if I’d like to date them. I’ve been driving in my car, & had hoodlums shout at me from their windows, asking if they could “holler” at me. I have been innocently window shopping in the mall, only to be grabbed by the arm by a nosy admirer & asked, “What ARE you?” (& by this question, they mean to know what nationality I am. Apparently, it’s difficult for people to decipher my ethnicity because I get this infringing question most.)
Disturbingly, I have been poked, pinched & prodded about my weight. There have been so many times where a random stranger will creep up to me & ask me if I ever eat. Some have even asked me point blank if I have an eating disorder. Of course I don’t! But even so, is it any of their business to know why I am so thin? Does it even matter? I’ve toyed with the idea of answering them in a simple way, “Why, yes. As a matter of fact I DO have an eating disorder. Thank you for noticing!” just to see the ridiculous looks on their faces, hoping they have learned their lesson in asking presumptuous & trespassing questions.
All the while, I am not trying to bring this senseless attention to myself. I don’t wear revealing or loud clothes. I’m not strutting down a hot pavement in heels & a cocktail dress. I am not fishing for compliments; I am not expecting approval. I am just myself. I am quiet, shy & a bit timid. Truthfully, I try to go unnoticed most of the time. Yet… people flock to me as though I’m asking for their undivided fixations. Sometimes, I just want to be left alone. Sometimes I want to be treated like I am — dare I say? — obsolete.
There are some women who enjoy this kind of flattery; some are models, some are movie stars, & some are just urban divas in need of a sufficient compliment to lift their spirits. I am not any of these women. I am not one to brag. While I have been blessed with the features of my mother & father, I do not gloat in what has been given to me. I don’t want to be made a spectacle of. I don’t want to be known for my looks or my legs or my hair; I want to be known for my mind & the words that escape my mouth.
I loathe knowing that beauty is such a big factor in this world. It makes me sick to hear women say that the reason they get plastic surgery to correct their “flaws” is because “prettier women make it farther in life.” Is that really so? I mean, statistically I’m sure… but does it truly matter? & why? To know I am apart of this statistic, a statistic I never wanted to be in at all, infuriates me. I hate knowing that little girls — much like my 13 year old cousin — are obsessed with their looks & depict long hair, for instance, as being one of the biggest indicators of female beauty. Who decided this? Quite frankly, I could care less if I even had hair & I’ve played with the idea of shaving it off, just to prove that hair doesn’t make beauty.
If I could declare one thing to the world, it would be that I am more than just my looks. Because I hate to think that all of the jobs I got was because I was “pretty” or all the friends I made liked me because I was “pretty” or the reason Lover fell in love with me was because I was “pretty.” If I could dumb myself down a little to show that I have flaws & low levels of confidence, I would, if only to make beauty seem useless. I would love to shout from the rooftops of this superficial city “The grass is never greener on the other side.” I would love to tell each woman that they are beautiful, regardless of what they look like. They are beautiful because they are alive, because they are breathing air, because they smile & laugh, because they are unique, because they are themselves.
Beauty is nothing without intelligence. Beauty is nothing without integrity or modesty. Beauty is nothing without personality or imperfections. Beauty is nothing without heart or kindness. Beauty is nothing without originality or self-sacrifice. & even with all of those things, beauty is fleeting.
Wednesday, July 16th, 2008
Even though it happened over a year ago, I am still brutally affected by memories. When I try to overlook the past, the emotional scars stare me right in the face, making me recall that night in graphic detail. I just cannot forget, even while I try my damnedest. This bothers me so much.
After everything, I haven’t been able to look at substances in the same way (alcohol, cigarettes, drugs of any kind). What used to be harmless alcohol is no longer; it is a door into deadly & addicting worlds. The same kind of worlds that almost took my Love away from me. I become uneasy when I know these substances are around me or Lover. I do not drink because of this. I haven’t had a drink in over a year. It’s true that the past (&, shamefully, fear) has aided this decision, but it’s my own choice.
When he comes to bed smelling like booze & cigarettes, my heart falls. When I see him reach for another beer, everything inside of me cringes. I begin to feel all of those emotions I felt back then, when I suspected his dishonesty & bad behavior. All those lonely nights, waiting for him to call; worried sick about him in my bed, trying to reach him during the late hours. I was never relieved when I found out that he was too drunk to remember to call me & so he passed out before even having a second thought about it. He was safe, yes… but not sound. Whenever I brought my ill-feelings to his attention, telling him that I was worried about the people he was around & the habits he was forming, he would soothe my fears, saying that everything was okay; that I could trust him. If there is one word I cannot stand it would be trust. Not just for the meaning — I don’t believe it’s possible to truly trust anyone but yourself — but because it’s such an ugly sounding word. Trust.
Always, he would assure me that I was being silly & worrying over nothing, making me feel foolish for even thinking that something was the matter. Imagine the stupidity (mixed with a bit of pride) I felt when I knew he overdosed. I didn’t know if I should have kicked my own ass for being too dumb to see the signs, or if I should have been proud of my intuition on a matter [drugs] that I knew nothing about. Both completely legit feelings, yet, very contradictory. Regardless, I have never turned my back on an intuition, even when it’s uncomfortable to face. In my heart, I always know; my brain is reluctant to catch up, of course, but I always know.
All of this is not to say that I am in regret; no, everything happens for a reason. I love my husband, more than that small statement can contain. But how do you forget? Rather… how do you really & truly move on? There are days when his overdose is the farthest thing from my mind. Where I feel like it never happened, almost as if it were a horrible nightmare I had. Nothing in our lives now mimics anything of that time, so it seems almost silly to have such vivid recollections. But then… there are days where all I can focus on is the frightening feelings & the deceit that could have — should have — torn us apart.
I wish it would all just stop & let me be alone to be happy in the present. I wish for normalcy. I wish to not be so paranoid. I wish that the scars of the past would stop popping up at all the wrong times. Most importantly, I wish I could have an answer to these questions: do I wish the overdose never happened? or… Am I okay with everything that has transpired, indefinite healing processes & security issues included? I don’t know.
I can’t explain why I find myself talking about this, of all things, tonight & so terribly late, too. Maybe it’s because he is lying in our bed, snoring & stirring, smelling like that of a bar. Maybe it’s because he was a little dishonest with me tonight; or… maybe I am wrong.
One thing is for sure: this particular wound is taking the longest to heal & acknowledging it reopens it.
“We cannot change our memories, but we can change their meaning & the power they have over us.” — David Seamands.
Sunday, July 13th, 2008
A few months ago, Lover caught glimpse of my bulging, gluttonous closet & told me that he thinks I might have a slight problem; he may have even hinted an addiction. Of course, I objected to this & told him that I could refrain from buying anything until my birthday (which is in September) & that I could do it willingly, at that! He accepted my challenge & so it began. Everything that included clothes & beautification would be illegal: shoes, panties, shirts & shorts, jewelry, makeup. I was doing quite well until this past weekend.
Not only did I purchase some things from Trendy Blanks, but I went on a mini shopping rampage. It couldn’t have been helped; Lover’s family came out from Utah, & we took them to the shops around Old Town. How could we not get a little something? Surprisingly, it wasn’t me that needed to be held back from buying, but Lover. He was pulling things off the rack exclaiming, “Ohh, babe; what about this? Okay… this one, what about this one? Honey! This color would look so nice on you! Hold it up to you; what do you think? Okay, we’re getting it!”
He persuaded me to buy just 3 things: a shirt, a vest that Lover picked out, & a bag.
Parisian shirt & yellow vest, from Forever21; jeans, from Gossip; shoes, from Ross; bag, from H&M.
By the time the shopping was done, having spent more than several hours of indulgence in crowded stores, Lover was understandably exhausted, while I was going into a clothes/shopping coma. It was this weekend that I truly realized how much I loathe shopping. In fact, I’m fine with never shopping again; unless it’s online shopping, of course.
I also realized that I am pretty firm on my likes & dislikes when it comes to my personal style. While in Forever21, Lover was selecting items for me, but I declined practically every suggestion. He would pick out the brightest, most seemingly obnoxious colors; forest greens, cherry reds, neon blues & eggplant purples. It’s not that I don’t like these colors, I just prefer them to be more subtly done & not so in your face.
My poor, little Fashion Conscious husband in training. He seemed so crestfallen at my rejections. I would insist that it’s not that I don’t like what he’s picking out because he is picking it; I’m just not one for loud & dramatic colors. I prefer monochromes, nudes & neutrals; natural & earthy colors. Apparently, Lover would rather see me in sporadic prints & vivacious hues because they go against my skin tone so beautifully. I can’t disagree with that, but then again, I can’t agree enough to wear them. The vest is exempt because it’s not so terribly yellow that I feel like a walking street sign.
Bless my husband’s heart for trying to help.
y mind.
