Tantrum Warehouse
Tact Free Since 2003

Girl Almost Breaks Face Off in Stairwell, Mourns Not Getting That Time Off

I almost passed out at work today. Monica and I were walking down the stairs and I was literally saying “I am going to fall.” I mean those words were hanging in front of me in a little conversation bubble. And I fell. I threw myself towards a wall so that I wouldn’t do a face-plant onto the metal railing. But it still scared the crap out of Monica. And me. And what a workman’s comp claim that would be, the first one for my face, teeth and nose and the second for Monica’s therapy from watching me go ass over tea kettle down the stairs.

I tried to tell her that this happens all the time. Honestly, too often. My body is sensitive—I get fevers, faint or vomit with the slightest provocation. It is just how I am. And I have really low blood pressure which can cause you to faint easily.

As a fainter I am deathly afraid of fainting in front of other people. I guess I am easily embarrassed because I would rather chip a tooth or break my nose than pass out in front of some one. Most of the time I get a little premonition of the faint and I will run into another room. Not so that I can lie down or sit down, but so that no one will see. I do realize that is messed up. I just can’t help it. I am also afraid that I will hurt some one. I am not a small person—if I had fallen on Monica she would have been squashed like a bug.

When I say I can often feel a faint coming on I mean that I get this sensation I call spinnyheaded. It’s like when you were a kid and would put your arms out and just spin and spin and spin in a circle. Then try to walk in a straight line. And fall on your ass. Feeling spinnyheaded really isn’t unpleasant at all—just alarming if you are walking down stairs or driving down the freeway at 70 mph.

It’s cold here now. Or rather Seattle’s version of cold. Since we live 90% of our days with temps of 45-70 degrees a day like today (50 degrees) feels downright nippy. Whenever some one bitches about the climate here I just laugh. It’s gorgeous here—never too cold or too hot. I have lived places that get 40 below wind-chill in the winter and 100 degrees plus humidity in the summer. I will take the super-mild temperate climate for 200, Alex. Ya’ll who don’t like it can just move on, we could use the room anyway.

I don’t even mind the rain. It doesn’t ever rain that crazy Midwestern rain where you can’t see in front of you and the drops leave bruises where they fall on your shoulders. It’s just foggy and misty every day. We had the first real rain since the summer began today and it fucked up traffic for hours this morning. For fog. That is what amazes me about Seattle—the second there is a drop of rain we slam on our brakes. If anyone should be equipped to deal with rain its goddamn Seattle.

I think that my rage has all been channeled towards fashion issues. As in, I am more outraged than usual about fashion missteps I see on the street—and less pissed off about the shit in my life I should probably be pissed about. On my way home from work this gorgeous black man walked out of our store. He looked like an employee. Beautifully cut suit, great colored shirt, obviously expensive tie. And he was wearing the fuck out of that suit jacket. It was cut perfectly for him and he had the shoulders to carry it off. And then I noticed his pants—which he had sagged. To his knees. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.

Do not sag suit pants. Don’t sag dress pants. If you want to look more fashionable, buy a lower-waisted cut. Don’t make yourself look all bulky and weird. Especially with a belt. NEVER with a belt. This is remedial men’s fashion people. I shouldn’t have to type out shit this basic.

Oh and the pants were PLEATED. How I hate pleated pants. Especially on young guys. Especially on men with good bodies. And how on Earth did he walk out of the house thinking that these pleated pants looked all hot sagged? Somebody’s mama lied to him. It has taken me four years but I have broken J of the pleated pants habit. They make the stomach look big and the crotch bunchy. And not in the my-penis-is-huge-way that I am sure men are hoping for. More like an I-stuff-my-boxers-with-a-sock-so-you-won’t-know-how-teeny-I-am sort of way. Not attractive.

Really. Pull up your pants and quit being such an I don’t know what.

4:50 p.m. :: comment ::
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