Mid-Week Ego Boost

Who doesn’t love a good ego boost?

Okay, that’s probably the same as saying to a group of pigs: “who doesn’t love a good mud bath?”, so without further delay…

…Ego boosts are chameleon in nature; not only are they versatile, but their importance varies by mood, person, and social situation.

As for me, a single girl in her late 20′s (who starts each day by checking if things got “saggier” from the night before), there are certain ego boosts that I just can’t do without:

#1: Dudes on the subway grazing my butt accidentally on purpose (which tells my brain I have an awesome “graze-able” butt)

#2: Dudes looking down my shirt (which tells my brain that the push-up bra with the uncomfortable “wiring” is doing its work)

#3: Getting dirty looks from random chicks (my brain automatically interprets these “soiled-up” stares as jealousy, and what’s more fun than that?)

You can see why I love my top 3 “boosts”, but there’s times when I need a little something extra.

I recently got myself an “extra” (it’s probably not what you’re expecting, but allow me to explain)…

…Picture a fair Spring morning in the snootier part of Toronto (“snootier” as in surrounded by designer shops and expensive restaurants). 

There I was in the midst of the opulence, strolling along in a casual manner.  I didn’t have a purpose, destination or objective in mind, but “random strolling” is one of my favourite hobbies (and the “rich people” neighbourhood is chock full of trees, nooks, and cobbled sidewalks…I dig that).

About midway through my stroll, I glanced to my right, and caught my reflection in a storefront window.

I was sort of…captivated.

I wasn’t wearing anything special, nor had I combed my hair, but there was something about me, and it made my heart skip a beat. 

My self-captivation is all well and good, but like any proper narcissist, I need to describe my outfit:

-I was clad in a pair of bum-hugging (and almost pelvis-crushing) jeans, so the bottom half was doing alright. 

-As for the top half, it was a bit of a bohemian mess: a printed long t-shirt and my favourite cropped jean jacket, all topped off with a scarf, worn 100% for vanity and 0% for warmth (translation: it was thin like a city-whore’s see-through top and completely incapable of warmth…but hey, it was glittered, so “yay ME!”). 

Now when I say “bohemian mess”, I don’t actually mean it in a bad way.  What I mean is, nothing I was wearing really matched, but it didn’t really clash either.  It’s like how celebrities get photographed looking all caught off guard in their “street wear”, but somehow they still look good.

That’s how I looked in the storefront window reflection, like a cool celebrity (especiallly when you factored-in my dark “don’t look me in the eye” pair of shades).

This had all the makings of a wonderful ego boost, but much to my surprise it got even better…

…Following my momentary “reflection”, I felt a little swagger in my step; it was completely involuntary, but it was there, and the people around me were taking notice.  This came to a head when I passed the Four Seasons.  I noticed some valet-dudes on their morning break, and they gave me the ‘ol “Oooh, where do I know that chick from?  Is she on the TV?”-type look.  It was the sort of situation where I should’ve smiled at their acknowledgement, but instead of smiling I frowned, and kind of, sort of….pouted.  I don’t even know why I did that, but it felt so right.

The more I emphasized my slightly bitchy (but awesome) expression, the more and more attention I got.  By a certain point, I had customers at patio cafes doing double-takes, homeless people craning their necks to catch a glimpse of me from their sleeping bags, and pigeons stopping their relentless shitting just so they could check me out.

What a glorious morning.

Feeling so high off this gradual (but significant) ego boost, I decided to embrace the imaginary fame even more, and so, for the first time in my life, I walked into a Gucci store.

I fully expected the sales girl to confuse me with a Bollywood Starlet.

She didn’t.

Realizing that the sales girl had zero knowledge of “Bollywood starlets”, I ignored the slight, and started to browse the collection of purses.

I picked up a purse that was $2200. 

(!)

Almost instantaneously, I pooed in my pants (just a little spotting, nothing explosive).  The poop was a direct result of “sticker-shock” (“sticker shock” is the #1 reason why grown-ups poo in their pants…closely followed by Indian food).

Feeling humbled by the incident, I left the store and ran for the “less snooty” hills (but not before finding a public bathroom, to you know…take care of stuff)…

…So the day didn’t end on a positive note, but considering the morning as a whole, it was certainly a “sum of all parts” delight for my self-esteem.  I simply felt hotter and awesomer and cooler than I had in a long time, so to celebrate, I rewarded myself with a third of a pie as an afternoon snack (which I chased with an Oh Henry chocolate bar).

(what a great way to get through the middle of the week…)

Attack of the Slutty Sandals!

I hate my feet, I hate your feet, and I probably hate the feet of an innocent child.

Despite my displeasure for the five-toed demons, I live in a world of seasons, so I can’t always hide in layers of poorly-stitched animal skin (faux animal skin, of course…I’m not even sure if that matters, since I feast on slaughtered animals from time to time, but anyhoo, another discussion for another day…).  And in case you were wondering, yes, those would be my quarantined feet in the pictures, circa February/March 2008.

My extreme aversion to all things “feet” begs the obvious question:

-What’s the deal chickadee?  Are you rockin’ some hideous feet?

In my humble opinion, yes, they are definitely hideous (so much so that I won’t dare to post them here), but relatively speaking…who knows?  I mean I don’t have any fungus (at least not on my feet), but with my long droopy toes and “size 9″ measurements, perhaps my feet are…borderline “mannish”?

And then there’s the pesky “stink factor”.  As far as that’s concerned…well let’s just say that after a long day’s work, my feet don’t exactly drip the elixir of a thousand roses, okay? 

In my defense though, the foot-stink is a hell of a lot less pungent than ten years prior.  Like I can still remember the nacho-stench that characterized my teenage “foot years” (by the way, did everyone experience uncharted levels of stinkiness in their teenage years (both in feet and body), or was it only me?).

So here I am, with my slightly mannish, circumstantially smelly feet, faced with another Summer of having to submit to (kill me now, kill me now) “sandals”. 

Sandals and flip-flops pretty much piss me off.  I just can’t see how it’s socially acceptable to air out your feet like that.  Back to my fungus-reference, our feet could be crawling with numerous diseases, and yet it’s okay to release our hazardous foot-bacteria in the atmosphere?  If I were President or Tyrant or Czar, I would demand that everyone’s feet be wrapped up in reinforced rubber, from mid-calf to toe.

As it is, world domination eludes me, so maybe I should buy some frickin’ sandals (I could always keep up with the boots all summer, but my wavery self-esteem would prefer to be ”socially acceptable”).

I’ve already made a couple of attempts to “sandal browse”, and on both occasions I left the store short-of-breath/searching for a giant donut.

The source of my anxiety is directly related to the wide assortment of this year’s “‘Ho-bag” sandals (note: all of these images are pulled from 2008 collections).  Now maybe I’m not in the fashion “loop”, but were sandals always so slutty?  ‘Cause last year I remember that sensible-flats were the talk of the town, making it a whole lot easier to remain inconspicuous.  But now, the complicated straps, the gaudy sheen, the mammoth heels…it all seems very uncomfortable (and at 5′ 7″, I’ve never felt the need for “heightening”).

And so we arrive at my Catch-22:

-Am I more concerned with comfort, or looking sexy? 

Well for someone who’s desperate to find herself a man, perhaps I should be erring on the side of “sexy”.  In the end it’s even more than just looking sexy, since several men openly admit to a drooly foot-fetish (to the extent of feverishly humping well-adorned feet in public (seriously it happens, I’ve seen it with my own tainted eyes…)). 

Well “attention whore” that I am, it is not enough to quietly observe as the “Foot-Feeding Frenzy” ensues, so maybe it’s time for my first pair of strappy sandals.

If I do indeed partake in this inevitable discomfort, I only ask one thing of my future boyfriend: please don’t ever, ever EVER wear man-sandals (or any foot-exposing shoes, up to and including Crocs (ugh…)).  I mean I know that guys get sweaty and like to release their feet on those humid days, but the gross-out factor is far too much for me to handle. 

Seriously, what’s grosser than hairy man-feet?  A baboon’s reddish ass?  An elephant’s wrinkly balls?  Perhaps, but not a lot else…