As I searched in vain for the long-term parking lot ticket that was supposed to be in the vehicle I was picking up from the airport one night earlier this week, I suddenly wished I’d worn a bra with my pyjamas.
You know what I’m talking about – we’ve all done it. We don’t think we’re going to interact with any member of the public when we have to nip out for something, and we can’t be bothered to change into proper clothes. So, there we are, driving around in comfy/holey garb, with our bunny slippers smoothly alternating between the brake pedal and accelerator. Am I right? High fives all around, my peeps!
Mercifully, just before I resigned myself to walking into the main terminal looking like a person who had lost allll her luggage, I saw the ticket peeking out of the inside door pocket. Hallelujah. I’d learned my lesson – I’d never do this again.
Oh look – a flying pig.
Remember the old saying – something about mothers telling their daughters to always wear clean underwear in case they got in an accident? If anyone is guilty of wearing the wrong clothes at the wrong time, it is I.
Just as recently as last month, I went down to reception at my London hotel to grab some paper and, at the last moment, I thought I’d go for a drink at the bar. I pulled up a seat, waited for the bartender to turn around and… he was gorgeous. He hadn’t been working there the week before. Where had he come from? Immediately I was aware of the fact that I looked like a Cabbage Patch Kid. My jeans were baggy, my T-shirt was shapeless and I was wearing sneakers. My hair was in a messy bun (not one of those sexy, Instagrammable styles) and I could sense every hormonal pimple on my face. I was as close to a gorgeous woman undercover as I
could be.
“Ummm… Cosmopolitan,” I said, trying to pull my T-shirt into something that showed I had a waist.
“Got it,” he replied.
That was the beginning and end of the romance. I slunk off to my room after my cocktail to see if there was a smoke detector in there, because if not, I could just conveniently burn my outfit in the bathroom sink.
When I was younger, I had a tendency to swing in the other direction. I would dress to the nines when I was taking out the garbage. I cringe now when I think of what I wore to university classes. Tight turtleneck tops, flared shorts, and… (forgive me)… white stilettos. The London streets in the area weren’t as clean as they could have been, and I often had to run for the bus. I stood out a mile everywhere I went. Those weren’t admiring glances I got, they were stares implying I was either clueless or brave.
I even thought that would be the perfect ensemble for attending a football match in drizzling weather. West Ham won, and I was the proof, leaving the grounds in a white top stained by the beer thrown over me by enthusiastic fans.
I think it was only in my final year that I discovered dungarees, ditched the heels and never looked back.
Speaking of shoes, at least I’ve learned my lesson in that regard. The advantage of being considered wacky, zany and funny is that no one seems bothered when I wear Skechers with a ball gown. I used to feel obligated to wear fancy footwear to any gala I was hosting, but by halfway through the night, my feet were screaming. Trying to run a live auction while walking on knives was like something out of a Grimm Brothers’ fairy tale. Good sense has since prevailed over fashion – you can barely see my sneakers under the long hem of my skirt. Plus, thanks to tied laces, there’s no fear of leaving a slipper behind like Cinderella. The princes will have to look elsewhere.
Actually, that being said, maybe they should just hang around the chicken coop by my house to find the woman of their dreams. Why? you might ask. Well, I took the casual wear thing to a whole new level a few weeks ago. I had to feed the chickens (best friend and housemate Lynne does the morning shift and I’m afternoons), and I’d just got out of the shower. I reeeaally couldn’t be bothered to get clothes on when I already had a big towel wrapped around me, so I secured it well, grabbed the big bowl of cracked corn, and went outside.
It was a foolish decision. The large host of wild chickens knew exactly what the sound of the door meant, and they came running over. I threw a scoopful at them to keep them briefly distracted, and tried to quickly open the coop. The lock was stuck, so I needed both hands. I put down the bowl of feed and pulled at the latch. At the same time that it gave way, a broken piece of chicken wire snagged the towel. I couldn’t seem to extricate myself, and the wild chickens, who had already devoured the pile of food, were now surrounding me. I needed to keep the coop chickens inside and the wild ones out, while grabbing the bowl that was being assaulted by beaks. I couldn’t close the door with the towel still hooked on it; it was a right pickle.
There was nothing else for it – the towel had to come off. There was no one around, and there was a fence and thick plants everywhere. I pulled it off, threw another distraction scoop of food many feet away, put corn in the coop, and then carefully pulled the towel free. It was probably two minutes total, but it felt like a lifetime before I had it wrapped around me once again. I scuttled back into the house and made the decision there and then that casual might be okay – even pyjamas at the airport – but I have to draw the line somewhere, and that would be bath linens in a chicken coop.
Right towel, but definitely wrong place.
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