I’m not that girly. I’m not going to lie. GoldDust tried once to put liquid eyeliner on me, and I cried before she even got one eye done. I’m just not a high maintenance female. I roll out of bed in the morning, brush my hair and teeth, and head out the door.
I forgot pants once because I was in such a daze.
This means, that when I go to the effort of getting dolled up, it’s a big effort. On Tuesdays and Thursday mornings, however, sometimes I’ll make the extra effort because I know I’ll be seeing my BFF Poof, who runs a fashion blog. It’s nice when our photos don’t feature her being adorable and me in a t-shirt. But that’s happened before.
One Tuesday and/or Thursday (I’m not sure which it was), I happened to be dolled up after playing photographer with Poof, and good things happened to happen. I got tickets to the most epic of epic things in the hockey world: tickets to the Winter Classic.
So, in a flurry of excitement and high energy, I headed to the most ideal place: Starbucks.
“Coffbanger,” I tell my barista. “GUESS WHAT I HAVE?!”
Coffbanger happens to have been my barista for a long time standing, and thus, he knows of my hockey love. He guessed within three tries that it was hockey tickets, and laughed at my outwardly excessive amount of glee.
His co-worker was not such a good sport.
“Wait,” the coworker tells me, interrupting Coffbanger’s and my conversation. “You can’t be a hockey fan.”
Eyebrow raise here. The awkward silence says that he should stop talking.
The coworker continues, however. “You can’t be a hockey fan. You’re in a dress.”
Cue the jaw drop. Of course, I would never take this lying down.
I’m so irritated. I’m tired of having to define icing to prove that I actually like hockey, as opposed to just wanting to hump Darren Helm*.
“Well,” I tell him. I manage to keep smiling. No amount of anger can wipe my “I’m going to the Winter Classic” smile off my face. And then this spills out faster than they’re making my coffee.
“You can’t be a man, you’re in skinny jeans.”
Coffbanger, the coworker, and I are all silent for a moment before Coffbanger lets out a snort of laughter.
Seriously though. Can’t a girl like her hockey in a dress?
Seriously. I looked fecking adorable.
Sound off, female hockey fans.
Can’t a girl wear a dress and be a hockey fan? Or a sports fan?
I know I’m not the only one with sports colored knee socks for playoff games.
*the writer acknowledges that yes, she would also like to hump Darren Helm.
I’ve heard there’s a TV show by this name, but considering that we haven’t had cable at my house since about 2009, I wouldn’t really know. What I do know, however, is that getting dressed is such a pain in the ass.
Work in 16 minutes. Still no pants. #HappyFriday
— Laura Anne (@LA_theGirl) July 3, 2013
Poof, SoccerGirl, and I decided last week to go out to eat. Which was a great idea. So great, that we decided we should dress nicely and wear heels since we barely ever get to do that (Except for Poof because she’s a fashion blogger and stuff). But seriously. I’m always in scrubs.
I wanted some damn high heels on my feet.
At least, I did, until it came down to D-Day.
Poof texted me a number of times throughout the day asking what I was wearing.
I tried to think of my closet and envision what I could wear, but then my head started to hurt because I hated everything single thing in it.
Poof: Did you decide what you’re wearing?
L.A.: No. I think I’m just going to go naked.
L.A.: I’m literally in underwear. This isn’t even allowed in public.
Poof: I’m going to burn my whole closet.
L.A.: OH. I want to do that too.
Poof: Did you know you can burn Doritos as kindling? And it makes multi-colored fire?
L.A.: I have heard that. We should burn our clothes AND Doritos. It’ll be a big colorful fire.
Poof: But what are you going to wear tonight?
A timeline of my evening before going out.
6:21 pm: Get home from work. Acknowledge I will not wear scrubs to dinner. Take off scrubs.
6:23 pm: Glare at closet.
6:25 pm: Candy Crush marathon.
6:35 pm: Above conversation with Poof. More angry glaring at closet.
6:41 pm: Try on outfit 1.
6:43 pm: Outfit 2.
6:45 pm: Outfit 3.
6:52 pm: Outfits 6, 7, and 20394803948.
7:00 pm: Stare at floor in dismay.
7:01 pm: Cry because I don’t know why I have so much laundry to do.
7:03 pm: Put on outfit. Hate it. Leave bedroom.
7:05 pm: Walk out door. Lock door. Realize I have no make up on and have not done hair.
7:05 and 30 seconds pm: Decide I’ve come too far.
7:10: Officially leave. Decide to later write blog. Decide to probably not do laundry.
7:30 pm: Don’t worry. We were both clothed and complete ladies in public.
Helllooooooo ❤ pic.twitter.com/N1UgNnMOyB
— Jenna (@hey_itsjenna) June 21, 2013
10:21 pm: Mostly.
— Laura Anne (@LA_theGirl) June 21, 2013
Oh, and fast forward a week. Repeat process.
Same story. Different event.
P.S. You can for real see exactly what Poof wore. Here it is.
- I Have Nothing to Wear: Part One (ninabadzin.com)
- How To Get Dressed in the Morning: Time-Saving Tips (stylecaster.com)