Overthunk

      Last night, I was dragged by my far thinner, more stylish, more trend-conscious sister into Urban Outfitters. These Outfitters, cleverly named as a depot at which you'd gear yourself up for an expedition through uncharted territory (except it's a city), comprise a habitat for the much maligned Hipster: a young person for whom anachronistic bad taste is akin to those two stone tablets we've all heard so much about.      As we entered, with two kids in tow, we were hailed briefly, dutifully, by a vision of Today's Nonconformist Youth: of medium height, relatively slouchy as he carefully folded some t-shirts at a table, cropped hair encircling his head except for a wildly curly blond crown, round glasses reminicent of Rick Moranis, or maybe even Mary Gross, gray v-neck t-shirt dipping low over his sternum, exposing his somewhat abundant chest hair, turquoise cardigan hugging him from behind, loosely flapping at both sides like deboned ...

I know, this trend is old news now, but its ridiculosity has not lessened. Do you want to say that this part of you is juicy? That may be a possibly serious medical problem, possibly related to ingestion of bad enchiladas. Why don't they get more descriptive with it? Like "Gassy" or "Pimply"? And hell, why doesn't the rest of the world besides fashionistas join in? These could appear in all parts of a department store: Menswear "Hairy" "Stanky" "Betta than Brad Pitt's" "Not an Entrance" "Bubble" Infants/Toddlers "Change This" "Caution: May Be Poopy" "Despite what I say, I should actually go potty" Plus Sizes "Got Back" "May Be Hot, May Not Depending on your Proclivities" The list is endless. I mean, if you're going to do a thing, don't do it half-assed! p.s. Go on, add your own!...

In my semi-revered professional life, I get the dubious privilege of telling people what to do. A lot. It's the sort of thing that, even if one didn't desire it in the first place, becomes rather addicting, or at the least, customary. This is why pushy salesgirls pimping clothing store credit cards with 23% interest over and over after I've thrice refused and made it abundantly clear that I don't want the motherfucking 30% off my purchase today, goddammit, irritate me. It annoys me for several reasons, but perhaps the best and most important is that I SAID NO !

And no, I don't mean the Freudian dream. I mean standing in the geographic middle of Wal-Mart trying on panties over your panties in case the last test driver had post-coital drip. We've all done it, sometime. And it's weird. I always have this fear that the fire alarm's going to go off and the shantytown of dressing stalls will fill up with smoke and collapse, sending me running for my car with only one boob half tucked into a hot pink and black bra and panty set I have no business buying. Either that or the security guys take turns laughing at the fat woman's ass hanging out of a cheap 2X thong.