My Aunt Iris sent this book to Sophie, and it perfectly sums up my philosophy about underwear.
It's about a princess who loves to wear fancy outfits to all of her activities, but when it comes down to it, she really just enjoys hanging out at home in her underwear. I've always been this way.
Me (to my Mom, sitting on the front porch): Mom, are we out of freeze pops?
My Mom: Gretchen! You're in your underwear!
I didn't see the difference between that and wearing a bathing suit on the front porch. Actually, I think I had some bathing suits that were more revealing. But that was in high school, and, while I no longer go outside in only underwear, I still find pants overrated for sitting on the couch. When we moved to our new house, a neighbor said, "This street is so friendly! People love to just pop in to visit."
"Oh no!" I thought. Not because I'm anti-social, but because I don't always have a pair of pants handy.
I do not like veins. I understand that they are an integral part of the cardiovascular system that keeps me alive, but, the thing is, I just don't want to see them. For years, I've wondered why modern science hasn't come up with a skin thickening procedure. You know, to thicken up your skin so you don't have to see any of those unsightly greenish-blue veins under the surface.
I've always felt that since I have an unusual dislike of veins, I'll probably be destined with an outbreak of the varicose kind at some point in my life. It would just be my luck. When I was in high school, I read a magazine article that suggested lying on your back with your legs propped up on the wall in order to prevent varicose veins. I would spend hours reading in this position in the name of prevention. I really don't have time for that routine these days, but I'm hoping I have enough of those hours banked in order to stave off the veins at least through this decade.
VERY SCARY POSTCARDS
I don't really know how it started, but when we went on vacations, my friends and I would try to find the worst possible postcards to send one another. Here are some of the best specimens:
I can sum this one up with three words: WORST. BIRTHDAY. EVER.
This was an actual clipping from the police blotter section of my hometown's local newspaper. And, although it speaks for itself, I can't help but wonder:
A. how someone could steal the wig off your head without you noticing who did it and
B. that you didn't notice for at least a half hour.
I just hope the wig was ultimately found.