This morning when I awoke I summoned ‘Carson the Butler’ aka Siri and inquired about the weather. (I switched to the UK Siri because it is the voice of a pleasant-sounding British man as opposed to that sadistic bitch that kept calling my exes. Carson and I get along swimmingly.) Today is beautiful of course, which is good because the endless weeks of humidity and rainy weather were really affecting my personal appearance at work. I should really pull a Kim Zolciak and switch to all wigs all the time. But I digress – what sent me into an anxiety spiral was Saturday’s forecast: all rain, all day and all night. Superb.
See this weekend, this lovely weekend, is my 5th year college reunion at my annoyingly preppy university with all of my chirpy and affluent classmates that, with the exception of a very worthy bunch, I don’t generally associate with anymore. I, of course, have very fond memories of ‘college!’ – the football games, the gothic revival campus, the functioning alcoholism – but my desire to spend $140 to sleep over in the dorms and play beruit on an unhinged closet door is slim to none.
Nonetheless, nostalgia and my inner party girl (I like to lose my shoes on Diddy’s yacht too, Tara.) got the best of me. Suddenly I was clicking on the ‘Register for Reunion’ button and checking off the boxes for the BBQ (Sunny pictures of 20-somethings playing cornhole!) and the cocktail reception and the hangover brunch and sure, I’ll donate to the Alumni Fund if I can get a free t-shirt.
And then the tide began to turn. You know how sometimes, at the best times, like a really hot date or your extravagant birthday party at Lolita, miracles happen. The humidity is low, your hair looks thick and shiny, the caffeine shakes subside long enough to put on some eyeliner, and suddenly you’ve dropped 5 pounds and look like a model in an outfit that just flies out of the closet. You drink a gallon of scotch but avoid behaving like an old weathered drunk and you wake up without a hangover. This weekend will not be one of those times.
First, I looked at everything in my closet and vetoed it immediately. ‘Too wedding.’ ‘Too church lady business.’ ‘Too I’m-painting-interior-walls-in-my-apartment.’ So I ordered a black backless number online – three days late and it looks heinous on me. Off to the stores! And despite eating rabbit food and running a half-marathon 4 days ago I am suffering from serious fat ass syndrome. Am I bloated? Do I have a thyroid problem? Did I buy full fat greek yogurt again? ‘It’s ok, it’s ok. You’ll wear black. You’ll wear a push up bra. This can be dealt with.’
But then came the forecast. Rain. I can handle my ass growing to five times its size but I can’t handle humidity on my hair. There may be guys who dig a girl with thighs like Beyoncé’s, but no man has ever said, ‘frizzy hair is my preference.’
So fingers crossed the weather changes or Carson comes up with a plan to tame my frizz. Otherwise I’ll be looking post-walk-of-shame at the pregame.
Hair Like Pony 