On my t-shirt collection, weekend pants, & the grateful dead

pet-hoodies Listen, I don’t have a lot going on right now (other than constant panic), and therefore, I’m going to tell you about my t-shirts. Let’s be real, though, the existence of this blog is hard evidence that I rarely have a lot going on, so you can expect more posts just like this one. You might, then, ask yourself: is this person a recluse? What does she mean she doesn’t have a lot going on? I’m here to tell you, though — I’m not socially awkward (emphasis on socially), I just have no real interests, so I’m unbearable to have a real conversation with. I love chatting with people, but I can’t say the person on the other end feels the same.

You’re lucky I give myself several days to write these posts. Otherwise, reading my innermost thoughts would be agonizing.

Rambling, and now moving on (see what I mean about listening to me?).

Genie in a Bottle

From the moment that my mother (mistakenly) decided that I had enough sense to dress myself, I’ve had a t-shirt problem. And by problem, I don’t mean it in a superficial way — where I have too many t-shirts. The problem isn’t inherently a shopping problem. (Although that is true — I do have too many shirts and a shopping problem — this is not quite where the problems end for me.)

Let’s start at the beginning. The point when I was given the ultimate responsibility in choosing my own outfits. Let’s travel back to the Mickey Mouse Club days of 1995.

Um, there was a time when belly shirts were acceptable attire for ladies (and sometimes on men, re: backstreet boys). But, in 1995, before Britney made it popular (circa 1999; & yes, I do know every useless fact about 90s popstars), I mysteriously found myself staring down a girls’ sized belly shirt in my closet. This closet shirt remains a bit clandestine because my mom did NOT want me to wear this shirt.

(Looking back, the situation truly begs a series of questions: who bought me this shirt? Did my grandma buy me this shirt? Did she think a belly shirt would look nice on her granddaughter? Was it an uncle? Why would he do that? How did this happen to a 6-year-old?)

Anyway.

Back to staring at the shirt in my closet. The shirt of my dreams was white with very thin & airy fabric, and it tied into a bow in the front, just above my belly button. A bare belly button seemed so appealing.

My family was going out to dinner, and I was told to change out of my play clothes and put on something nice to wear in public. Obviously, I came downstairs, proudly wearing my belly shirt with a pair of polka dot leggings – the outfit I decided was just flawless for public viewing. I was a 6-year-old genie in a bottle.  A perfect outfit, and my mom was horrified. I was cute, and she was mad.

She, of course, told me to take it off and change into a regular shirt for dinner. I screamed until she gave up on trying to be a good mother. Since I was insufferable to reason with, we went out to dinner, and I wore the belly shirt.

Here’s the thing, though: after about 3 minutes in the restaurant, I became very cold. It was June, and the jerks who owned the restaurant thought air-conditioning was a necessary & welcomed treat for all patrons. How wrong they were. And considering how insufferable I am to reason with, I refused to tell my family that I made a bare belly button mistake during dinner. I sat in silence with a cold belly and barely touched my dinner.

As the night went on, I couldn’t contain my feelings any longer. After dinner, my belly button felt like an ice cube. Subsequently, in the parking lot, much like an afterschool special, I put my hand on my mom’s arm, and she stopped to look at me. I looked up at her.

“Mom, I should have listened to you. I’m… still hungry.”

I couldn’t enjoy my chicken fingers at all because of the belly button draft. I deeply regretted not being able to enjoy those chicken fingers.

I won’t give you the gory details into each t-shirt escapade I’ve endured throughout my life. I will, though, give you a brief synopsis of a few more ridiculous ideas I’ve had about shirts, outfits, and clothes in general.

Weekend Clothes

Later in life, I bought a hideous tie dye Grateful Dead t-shirt that I wore on the daily; the phase moved onto wearing only t-shirts that were long enough to cover my butt (even though I was around 10 and had no butt), which was a stark contrast to the bare belly button phase; then, weekend pants.

Weekend pants were puke green athletic pants: flared at the bottom with a stripe down the side. I have vivid memories of wearing my weekend pants while on my scooter and only on the weekends.

They were exclusively called weekend pants, without an article attached.

“Mom, where in the world are weekend pants? It’s almost Saturday!”

My sibling, Lars, had these two things to say about his memory of weekend pants:

  • “She never washed them.”
  • “They smelled like the dickens.”

Oops.

My family is still uncertain how these puke green pants became the only pants I would wear on the weekends. They were comfortable, but I only wore leggings on schooldays, so I don’t know how much more comfortable they were than leggings. At this point, though: who’s to say? They were called weekend pants, and that’s who I am.

-KM

On My Failing Personality Quiz Results

cat-wearing-shirt

Guys, I took this Personality Factors quiz (mistake #1), and I must share my results. First, though, let me explain the quiz itself. This quiz is set up to ask you a series of questions about your personality traits, and the questions change along the way to adapt to the personality traits that continue to show up in your answers.

The point of the quiz results, as the website advertises, is to answer the question: How Does Your Personality Impact Your Life? I have visuals for you below if my explanation doesn’t make any sense (which is likely).

Does it make a bit more sense with the visuals? Okay, we can move on.

A few of my friends took the quiz, too, and I’m going to share their results before I tell you about mine. The comparison is essential.  These are the results of three of my friends who also took this quiz:

  • Eloise: Intellect 94%
  • Anna: Complexity 88%
  • Jonathon: Warmth 82%

Basically, the quiz determined that, for example, Eloise’s intellect impacts her life 94% of the time; complexity impacts Anna at 88%; and, Jonathon is affected by his warmth at 82%. These all seem typical. The answers do reflect their personalities quite well, in my opinion.

Now, onto my results.

space jam

Drum roll, please.

The image below is my personality graph. You see the little box? That’s my result.

Anxiety: 100. Percent.

 results

This quiz determined that out of all my personality traits, the only one that truly puts a dent in my daily life is anxiety. One-hundred percent of the time. One hundred.  Not 82%, not even 97%.  Within my 100% anxiety results, it also includes 75 different personality traits having to do with sensitivity.

See, that one I get. I am sensitive. My husband does this thing that he thinks is funny (he is wrong), where he preemptively tells me he’s going to scare me to get my limbic system prepared, and then he makes a loud noise, and I flinch and scream. I cannot be prepared.

Anyway, I get that one. After finding out these results, though, I took another quiz (mistake #2) solely about anxiety. (Mind you, all this quiz-taking was being done after midnight on a weekday.  A good way to spend my should-be-sleeping time.) How Anxious Are You?  I don’t know the full numeric scale, but after a score of 38 (selecting 38 anxious answers), you are considered to have severe anxiety. My score? 53.

GUYS, I’M A 53. By the way, this is completely counterproductive for someone with anxiety because now I have anxiety about my internet quiz diagnosis.

I asked my brother to comment on my 100% anxiety lifestyle, and he said, “Her favorite way to relax is to watch Holocaust documentaries.”

I should have seen this coming.

-KM

Affable Introversion: On why I’m bad at public speaking but good at being an octopus

Cute hipster cat with glasses, scarf and flowers.I’m a rational human being. I’m aware the cards are stacked against me. And really, the cards aren’t just stacked. The cards have formed a tower and a mote, and a village of angry townsfolk are carrying torches and chasing me out.

But, in any case, the only career I’ve ever hoped to pursue is acting.  It’ll never happen.  I am already in my 20s, earned a graduate degree, and I have not yet once had the courage to stand before an audience for anything other than a school project (which, by the way, I always dreaded).

Get this: I’m a terrible public speaker. Dreadful.  My voice shakes; my throat gets dry and I cough a lot; I don’t look at the audience; and, I rarely know what I am talking about.

I once had to read an essay to a Post-Colonial Lit course in my undergraduate years because my writing was super feminist (professor’s words, not mine) and my peers’ writing was super not. My professor, Maya, wanted me to school everyone on being a decent human. Instead, one minute into reading my essay, Maya, concerned, asked me how long I’d had bronchitis and if I wanted her to read it instead. I schooled the class on awkwardly coughing while otherwise healthy.

The thing is, though: acting is not public speaking. Public speaking is standing still and trying to remember something about geology. Acting is flailing your arms and making octopus noises. It’s wearing a bright red hat and running around aimlessly, looking for a lost shoe in this scene. Acting is being paid to put on those shows in your childhood basement that your parents hated while clapping. How do I know this, you ask? I just told you I’ve never been on a stage!

Guys, the world is my stage. For as long as I’ve been incredibly weird, the world has been my stage. And I must tell you: my first word was “apple pie”. That’s two words, but if you ask my parents about my first coherent word, it’s “apple pie”. I wasn’t your average “mama papa” baby. Anyway. It’s all about the drama. And guys, I love drama.

Here’s my tentative plan to make my life worth living (JK, but really): I manually take 4 years away from my age. I had this brilliant idea while I was drinking blood (what if the sentence ended right here?) orange margaritas the other night, which is why the number is randomly 4 and not 5 or something normal.

Like I said, I have a graduate degree. In the ivory towers, you learn that almost everything is a social construct. I’m going to make an assessment here: age is a social construct. Yes, I was technically born a certain number of years ago. But, for the entertainment industry, 4 years in your 20s is significant. I can be airbrushed to look 20 years younger, anyways. My first role: baby who loves apple pie.

This plan is half-baked and I know it won’t change my odds in an incredible way. However, this is step 1, and I will keep you posted on this weirdness as it unravels.

Do you want me to be a famous actress? If you for sure do, follow me, and say nice things to me!

First blog post

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**Welcome!** to my first blog post under the pen name, Banana Peel Leggings.

(FYI, I ordered a pair of leggings with banana peels on them at 10:30 this morning. It is now 12:44 on the same day, and here is my blog.)

As I’m writing this, I’m thinking about how my thoughts are far less important than those from people who don’t have time to read or write blogs.

(An example: those who are tired, hungry, and huddled masses yearning to breathe free.) Be that as it may, I am writing this blog. I was born with such a lottery ticket, ensuring that I have time to write in this blog. It’s a gift.

With that lottery-induced gift, I intend to make you laugh. That’s all I have for you. It’s one important thing I can share with you during these shitty and uncertain times.

If we couldn’t laugh, I am certain 65 million sane Americans would have experienced instant heart failure on November 9, 2016.

So, here goes.  Welcome to the musings of Banana Peel Leggings.