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I don’t know if I’m totally alone here (I also might be the only person in the world who makes in involuntary weird face when I eat lettuce) but every now and then, when clothed, I suddenly feel really naked and this odd, deep shame. It passes pretty quickly, but where does it come from? Because I am weird and fun, I like to think that it stems all the way back to Eve, who I would be somehow related to – and just for a moment, I’m feeling the shame she felt when she first sensed her own nudity? These are just the sorts of things I like to convince myself are true.

I just had this genius idea for a, uh, movie, or webisode or something, or maybe even just a new way of Living my Life. Picture this:  A masked perp (me?) who stalks girls,  punches* and / or tasers them and robs them of the cute dresses they are wearing!! They come to, minutes later, wearing something shapeless from Old Navy, not knowing what hit them. (It was the DRESS BANDIT.)

(Bored.)

*Bekah does not condone violence against women, even if they are wearing cute dresses that you covet.

…Is that Vanessa Williams?

I think I just realized that I kinda of dress like a toddler.  It’s okay. I have peace with it. While I always wish I was wearing things like high heels and things with high waists and vests and sleek things and things with buckles and what not and things that grown-ups and women do – I always end up in leggings and flowy things and dirty slip on shoes from wal mart. Instead of growing up and into myself – I’m moving backwards for convenience and comfort. What am I, a Mom? A grad student? Gah. I need to step it up.

Bekah, note to self: Do not say to your giant recently wounded Marine Brother ‘Hey, cool hispter scarf!’  as this will most likely piss him off. But I just couldn’t help it. I mean – does said Brother’s scarf not bare a striking resemblance?

What Tim is wearing is actually a scarf he got in Syria while guarding the border – it’s what Syrians wear to you know, keep the sand out of their eyes – NOT to accentuate a hip- hoppy colorful gay outfit of Apathy. Hmm.

Oh, the origins of fashion.  Hillarious.

Um.

Would anyone like some clothes?

* please note that though I possess 12 coats (okay, okay, 75% of them were 8 bucks from goodwill and smell like rats, old ladies, and old lady rats.)  Even though I possess 12 coats, I found it imperative to go where no Bekah’s wachovia card has gone before and purchase this fantastic coat for $150:

Which hurt so bad and felt so good. I mean, it has little gold buckles and is sort of like a cape.

Fortunately, for those of us who feel Coats speaking to us when we waltz through overpriced botiques and thrift stores, there are things such as coat drives. Said drives serve as atonement for our overspending, as, well, we are helping people. I can’t wait to see a homeless person or child shuffling about in a grandma coat I spilled merlot on.

But for real, it’s a good idea. Donate your old winter coats!!!

 So….Hmmm.  

Oh, the Olympics. Dog sitting once again on the Upper West Side, i find myselc abandoning all responsibilities to take in the flat screen and a mirage of summery sports.

An observation: while boys may watch the Olypmics for antiquated man-reasons, girls have a whole other motive alltogether. That’s right. The buttlympics. Jealous, observing, we spitefully (and objectively) discern whose butt is superior to our own, and why.

Though I have to say, my tendency towards the obsessive taking of spinning classes has increased the overall quality of my butt – Any olypmic butt is far superior to that of an average citizen.

The volleyball butt,

The gymnast butt,

Swimmy butt,

and the root of my most intense envy, runny butt.

Arguably, if I were super serious, I could spend the next five years at the gym, lifting and squatting and crunching things. I, too, certainly, could have a runny butt.

(Ew. She said runny butt.)

Or maybe instead I’ll just watch the Olympics while the dog licks my belly button. Maybe I’ll just do that.

In celebration of the Summer, Sweaty necks and virtue of patience (or lack thereof,) instead of waiting for my hair to grow, I have chopped it off once again. Last night, Marilyn did me up with a new look that I today I have decided to call  ‘flippantly irrational bowl cut.’

People, it feels oh so very nice.

Yesterday, it being sunny and a startling 57 degrees, I embraced the bug that is the spring cleaning.  Extremely gratifying, this task seems daunting but is ultimately fulfilling. Allow yourself at least 3 hours to trudge through all the embarassing goodwill clothes you have stuffed under your bed, vomiting out of your closet, breaking the doors. If you cannot decide whether to get rid of something, Wear it Around for a Minute. Do you feel like yourself, or a douchebag? Have your opinions of polka dots changed?

As you get older, quit clinging to things that make you look 16. Keep a couple of weird things, though, to remind yourself who you once where. Wear said things when you’re bored with yourself.

Finally, with the aide of a cute boy and his man tools, be a Grown Up and put Shelves on your Walls. (Be a lady; make him a flank steak in return.)

What joy! I’m not kidding. I’ve spent the morning shelving things that have been rotting in cat hair on the floor for circa a year. Now my prized books sit firmly, pretentiously, above my desk. Next step: thorough obsessive alphabetization.