The Shellyhood of the Skin Tight Pants

Dear Internet,

Today is my birthday. If I were in New York on my birthday, it would be an all out beer slaughter at The Sly Fox (it's real name is Karpaty Bar and is adjacent to the Ukrainian East Village Restaurant) where I would invariably leave my gifts consisting of a cat harness and leash, scented candle, tulips, and lottery tickets. I would then force Max to go a day or two later to pick them up. This really wouldn't be an issue because he loves booze and going back to The Sly Fox/Karpaty Bar would be an excuse to throw back a few Rum & Diets before heading back to Zero Lorimer Street, Apartment Loud.

This year, instead, I spent my birthday in Chicago. I did receive an East Coast Happy Birthday at 12:00 AM Eastern/11:00 PM Central (sort of like TV shows), a tag team birthday text, and some flowers from Urban Meadows. I then dragged my hung over self to the the coffee pot and drank as much as possible to feel halfway in between Aspergers and Savant. Fairly uneventful, but fun day, I got my hair cut and colored (my colorist worked really hard to cover up the grays), had some Southern-style Poutine (a substitute for much-craved Disco Fries -- there is no Wiki for them! Just Cheese Fries!), and drank a few beers, and of course, went shopping.

The highlight of my day, aside from getting the Women's Frye Engineer 12R boots I wanted, was purchasing a pair of Levi's Denim Leggings, near black wash. I was really excited. I am still really excited. If I hadn't eaten so many fried potatoes with gravy, a Chicago-style hot dog with everything on it, drank a huge coke, had a buttload of PBRs, and devoured an entire (practically) carrot cake, I would put them on right now.

As I eyed them again just a few minutes ago, thinking up all the fantastic ensembles I am going to pair them with, I realized something. Every year, and with every birthday, my pants get tighter. By the time I'm thirty, I probably will cease to actually wear pants, especially if I keep going at this rate. I have been heading in this direction for some time now, but most recently it has been brought to light quite publicly.

Let's think back to Valentine's Day, when I so famously got a pair of shiny, side zipper, red leggings. I haven't worn them yet, but I have a bizarre fascination with them and have considered joining roller derby (WHIP IT!!!) just to wear them. Now, earlier today, on my 28th birthday, I decided I needed another pair of impossibly tight pants. I'm not even sure if they can be considered pants. I mean, Levi's certainly does, but a nun or my mom probably wouldn't. I think there is some weird inverse ratio here in effect. Instead of, as I get older, buying looser, more momesque jeans, I have reverted to wearing jeans that I wouldn't have worn when I was 22. Now, on the short side to thirty, I'm buying (who knows if I'm going to be wearing them) pants that may very well be too small for my age.

Mostly I don't care, but the big thing is that I shouldn't be doing this stuff at least until I'm 40, and definitely not unless I'm cougaring it up (I love that the person posting this definition is using the moniker "cougargeiger".)

I figure that if I can still wear them then I'm going to. Even if I can't figure out how. And besides, it's my birthday, so if I am going to receive irrelevant gifts (I got a map of Long Island and a porcelain dog), one of them might as well come from me.

Shelly