Ok, I know what you are thinking. I already wrote this. Which of course is true, I did. But I went out this weekend and I realized people aren’t listening to me. Are they crazy? Why would you not want to wear denim, leopard, army green, cargo pockets, red lace, glitter and leather at the same time? Duh! Do it!
So I went to a bar, let’s just say it was not a bar that demanded a high level of dress. Ok, let’s just say that bar is in Fenway and has “Tequila” and “Rain” in the title. Let’s also say that if you go to a bar with either or both of those words in the title and you happen to drink a two foot long frozen something or other with bourbon (not tequila?) your body might remind you for three days afterwards that you went to a bar with “Tequila” and/or “Rain” in the title. Ouch.
Before I go further, let me just say I am a huge advocate of anything short with heels. Its my favorite thing. I recognize that the time is coming when I won’t be able to get away with mini-skirts and stilettos and so I plan to rock it for as long as possible. Theoretically, because I am no longer an undergrad that time may have passed, but I can rest on the fact that I am still a student so its ok. Or just in denial, but either way, I’m going with it.
I also know that girls get dressed up for their girlfriends and girl strangers, not strange boys. In fact, in my opinion it’s the opposite–the hope is that stranger girls think you look good and strange boys leave you alone. For that reason, my forthcoming statements about hoo-has and ta-tas are limited to what I think, not what boys think with their pants. Or what’s in their pants. This is all getting very uncomfortably NSFW.
First of all, never show your hooha. I’m not sure whether or not to hyphenate that. I know that’s foundational but when I think people need advice, I never hesitate to word vomit all over them. It might seem like a worthwhile risk in the evening after a few cocktails. You may be thinking “I’m free. I’m independent. I don’t care what people think.”
But remind your intoxicated self, that sober self has to wake up the next morning to ask “How many people saw my underpants last night?”
See, no one in Beverly Hills would serve this lady…
What a hussy Oh yeah, still got it.
General rule of advice, if you are dancing around the idea of flashing strangers with your barely-there bottoms, first call me, second, cover up up-top. No need to show the whole world the whole bit of what your momma gave you.
Second of all, my chest never really made it through puberty so my advice on covering up on top is both limited and biased, because I might as well be a 17-year old boy and I’m still jealous of the most popular girl in middle school. Nevertheless, the rule applies in opposite too! Show some boob, cover some legs or arms or both. As I am writing this, I am planning the photographs I am taking, and I just got very uncomfortable at the idea of actually following up on this, but that’s ok because there is still plenty of time in the day for wine.
I tried to take pictures of a low cut something or other but all it highlighted was my sternum, which is strangely deep, and my rib cage. So Pretend these are major league yabos (I just learned that)
Then pretend this man shirt is a pair of baggy pants. Then dance to Miss New Booty.
Longest post ever, but its half about boobs, so Delta 0!?