Tuesday, July 5, 2011


So I came pack to mom's/the family's ( I always catch myself saying my parents' place. It's weird) to do laundry and pick up what I thought was my last load of clothes. No such luck. It won't fit into the tiny suitcase.

Anyway, while waiting for the machine to sing its song, I found a couple of things I needed to handwash anyway. By a couple I mean two pieces cos it's a pair of lace, pull-up stockings. And they look very nice. I mean. I thought that even when I bought it so.
It snagged on the hanger though. I fucking hate when that happens. Goddamit. These thirty dollar pieces of sheer delicates and they snag and have these lines and shit on them.

So anyway, I'm hanging these lacey black things up, and I'm just thinking- when in the world am I going to wear them again?
They're the type that's worn to be discovered. They're not just black stockings. The lace pull up stops mid-thigh and if you've got garters to keep them up that'd be added hotness.
Like I said, they're worn to be discovered. Not just to feel nice in and go out, underneath jeans or a skirt and then come home alone to.
Not that my life is really that sad but I catch myself thinking,
When will I find an occasion to wear these again? Already, I look at my hooker heels and try to find ways of wearing them without looking like a stripper.

And that, my dears, is how I realize that I am slowly, but surely, growing old.

And while we're on that, it gets a bit tiring doing that anyway. Dressing up. Or dressing up to dress down.
I've rather been missing our curling up on couches, snuggled under some pashmina-type throws with my feet tucked under her, or my head in her lap while a movie plays on telly. (I'm always the one that needs the volume up. Always. Gawd. It's my family's fault, I swear.)
So yes, I'd much rather have time for that than trying to keep my boobs from spilling out of my bustier or trying to pair hooker heels with jeans so I look just a tad less skanky.

I want to read. Do laundry. Meet mommy up for breakfast (like this morning). Sip my morning coffee and stare out my window. Vacuum. Call her at lunch to ask what she feels like for dinner. Pretend that I'm a master chef, when I'm actually just good at googling. (Oh google, my friend)
Crawl into bed at ten, but stay up til two just, talking and talking and talking.

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