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FALLING INTO DISGRACELAND

FALLING INTO DISGRACELAND

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I say this every day, but I think I’m going to have to get a new look. Of course, that is going to require a new body, and of course, that is going to require a lot of lipo. Or that surgery Carnie Wilson had to shrink her stomach the size of a thumb. Maybe I’ve mentioned this before, but if I wasn’t going to be a reporter, I was going to be a fashion designer. Or a personal shopper. You know, help people find clothes they really love, and that they look really good in. Because different styles look better on different sized and shaped people. I happen to be a little bigger on top, so most of the shirts I wear are fitted. Tailored. Tight. Because if they weren’t, it’d look like I had on a muumuu. Or a circus tent, take your pick. Unfortunately, it seems the reporting life has taken its toll on my personal appearance. Some days I wake up and say, “Can I wear sweat pants today?” The answer is always no, mostly because this is Memphis, and we’re in a heat wave as I write this and have been ever since I moved here. The intention is there (One of my friends says that people have given up on life when they wear sweat pants out of the house. I’m not sure that is completely true), but most of the time I just end up wearing clothes. Nothing special. Just comfortable. Pants, a sleeveless top. Something I can work in all day long, fielding calls, writing (you’d never guess how strenuous it is to type all day), reporting. But perhaps I’ve gotten too comfortable. The other day I was being a reporter, so I walked into a local high school to get a copy of their dress code. I was wearing -- and this is important so pay attention -- black hipster flares and a purple sleeveless blouse with a tie at the top (which I bought at a mainly teeny bopper store in the mall). Walking in to the main office, I identified myself, told the staff I had called earlier, and asked for the dress code. A bit of confusion ensued: the new dress code hadn’t been printed; no one had a copy of the old one. Long story short, I was directed to another office, but not before one of the women -- who had walked in after I did -- pointed towards my outfit and said, “Well, you can’t wear that.” Ouch. It was nice to be mistaken for a high school student, no doubt about that (she was across the room so I’m sure she didn’t see all my already forming wrinkles), but to be mistaken for a scantily clad high school student ... well, that was less nice. You see how a new look might be in order. Looking at a Vogue, though, I only saw things I couldn’t wear to high school. Not what I was looking for at all. Just movie stars and rockers wearing little bitty tops and tight little pants. All the regular schlubs have to wear bulky sweaters and unflattering pants and pantyhose. Perhaps with my new look, I will get a new career. Not personal shopper or fashion designer, but “rocker” or “popular movie actress.” Then I can wear whatever I want whenever I want to. First, though, I think I’ve got some research to do on that stomach-thumb surgery.

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