I went to the gym last night; I bought a new sweater last night.

That sentence is grammatically correct. This is my story.

It all began with a quick scan of available classes. Which one should I take? Rope Circuit. That sounds harmless. Lots of jumping. Less regret about the three day weekend. And hey, hours of jumping is great for a bad knee. I was sold.

Then, as class began, there was an announcement.

“No ropes tonight, guys! Tonight you’re in ‘Pre-Season Conditioning.’”

That’s fine, dude. I’ve been trying to get in better shape for the occasional “You’re halfway down the ramp as the L train is arriving” season. I haven’t had many wins in 2012.

There were lunges and other tortuous activities. Halfway through, “All Of The Lights” hit the playlist and I came very close to yelling, “SAVE ME KANYE!”

I didn’t. Kanye wouldn’t have answered anyway.

But after the sweat, I knew I needed a trip to Joe Fresh. The day after a tough workout is always rough. I needed a fly new outfit to compensate for my painful hobble.

And there it was, the perfect sweater. Light, comfortable and equipped with elbow pads for impending, wobbly falls.

When you start thinking everyone is crazy, the opposite is usually true.

This is a lesson I learn often, sometimes in a retail setting.

Last night, Joe Fresh set the bait. 

I wandered from street to store and from orange tag to orange tag to checkout in disbelief.

How could everyone else be so stupid, and I so smart? Sometimes I’m just too busy checking to see whether or not I can type in mittens* to remember this contrast.

But as I waited for the considerate woman ahead of me to finish asking multiple questions about clothes she had no intent to purchase, I noticed another, much larger woman above me.

Sure, this woman’s IBS-laden expression would have confused me had I been making a regular purchase in ordinary times. But on this particular night, she seemed to say, “$2 bright orange tights. $2 bright red tights. I get you, girl.”

And you know, I think I got her as well.

*I can, just not recognizable words.

I took a class in college about colors that look real nice with one another.

Sometimes we even talked about colors that don’t look real nice with each other, but enough about them mean colors. The main takeaway was that, as a ginger woman, I look best in blue or green. Green contrasts my orange hair, while blue is all “Twinsies!” with my eyes.

This worked for a while. The green and the blue. The hair and the eyes. But as my closet hit wardrobe status,* a strange thing happened. The greens and the blues started to blend and soon, it was like, why is there a globe in my closet?

Who put that globe in my closet?

Where am I?

One day I went to bed in Florida and woke up in New York.

And that’s when I saw it: the butterfly shirt.

The state swap no longer mattered.

Who bought this awful shirt? Obvs not someone who took the colors class. I mean, the shirt is basically a portrait of mean colors fighting to the death. And then I realized, this shirt was not meant to be worn. It was meant to stand out in a world of blues and greens. This person who bought it was alright after all. This shirt could live another day. After all, this shirt, had once been on sale at Forever21.  

Becoming the person I used to make fun of is my new hobby.

Its proper name is Hip Hop Funk dance class.

Here, similar to the volleyball duds who go to rec leagues with eight braces and no knowledge of the rules, I show up dressed like an extra from “Save The Last Dance.”  

Oh, you weren’t a lonely teenage girl when that movie came out? Cool, here’s a breakdown: 

You start with a loose shirt. Extra points are given to those with an exposed shoulder. Next, you add loose pants. These make it easier for you to move, and also, they make it easier to hide said movement.  

Sweet kicks complete the look and begin my overcompensation.

I bought these as “walking-only” shoes, to be worn no more than five times per month. I feel like Kreayshawn when I wear them. I listen to Kreayshawn when I wear them. And yet, the world treats me no differently when I wear them.

That is why my overcompensation continues with a fierce headband. The headband’s primary purpose is to rescue me during times of desperate inadequacy, like say, the jumping pelvic thrust.

But pelvic thrusts aside, it is this combination of the traditional and the pimp attire that allows me to jump from extra to lead. 

Not the one at the end of the movie, though. The one who says “cool” instead of “fresh,” tries to beatbox and then goes to the club and two-steps before almost getting her ass kicked by Nicky. That one.

fatblood asked: I'm trying to decide; when hole in the crotch of your best jeans get to big to wear out in public how do you know?

I’d say that your main checkpoint is exposure of genitals. Until then, game on.

I dream of a world in which a person’s shoes do not necessarily indicate that same person’s age.

This is a relief since just yesterday I dreamt I had a baby and then I misplaced it.
But let’s focus on the shoes. We’ll find ol’ dream baby later.

To be fair, my pursuit of ageless footwear was but an afterthought. You see, it was the promise of unprecedented heel warmth that stirred me to ask for a size 10 before calmly settling for a size 9.5.

Scroll down, please. Take a close look. Examine even. Do you know what you are seeing? It’s a heel sweater. 

Oh, you may proclaim, “No one needs a heel sweater!”

And then I may ask you to stop yelling.

Or you may ask, “Why would I need a heel sweater?”

And then, well, I must ask you, “How can you deny yourself the joy of a heel sweater? Have you ever even considered how cold your heels must feel? Everyone focuses on the toes. Sure, it would be difficult to walk without toes, but I must say the same for heels. Do you not agree?”

And then we would likely agree and I would begin to tell you more about my dream for ageless footwear.

Just think of a world where these shoes might say more than “Damn, how do I keep forgetting to get a new library card?”

They might say, “I had gin and a granola bar for breakfast.” Then, they might show up to work and yell, “WHO ARE YOU LOOKING AT? WHAT KIND OF COFFEE IS THAT? IT SMELLS PRETTY GOOD.”

You don’t know.

I’m in the bathroom stall. Quick, how old am I? You don’t know.

I dream of a world in which Keds invites every owner of sweater shoes to a conference and sure, we’d probably start with a fun icebreaker about our favorite movies or what we like to do when we’re sad, but then we’d quickly move on to other discussions. And really, we’d all just be hoping we never have to leave our shoes at the door. That’d be really confusing.

I borrowed these gloves from my roommate.

First rule: don’t borrow expensive things. Especially when the owner is out of town and unaware that you are borrowing them.

Second rule: check that label.

Merona. Good. That’s Italian for “Target.”

Third rule: check that style.

This raised some concern. You see, it looks like the last person who wore them got into a horrible accident. Fortunately, the thumbs were spared.

Thank god! I don’t want to live with a damned cat!

Fourth rule: ignore the little hats that look like storage compartments. Gravity is not your friend.

Update: The first friend to read this explained that the little hats on top are actually the top to a mitten convertible. Fancy and tricky, Merona. Don’t do it again.

We have a secret at Arnold NYC.

It’s not the water, because it’s never the water. And it’s not the coffee, although we do have a very impressive flavor offering.   

Sometimes it’s the Hershey storage closet, but most times, it’s something we call Plaidvertising.

Plaidvertising was given its proper name in early December of 2011 by the Walker-Packer duo.  

Don’t be misled, though. Plaidvertising is more than a fad. It’s more than fashion.

Plaidvertising is a belief system.

And it rests on this premise, “We don’t wear bow ties, our ideas do.”

Remember when I killed it at American Eagle’s pre-holiday sale?

Well, this watch was a casualty.

40% off a $30 watch? I’m no mathematician, but you can put that on my card and I’ll deal with the numbers later.

And so they did put it on my card, but I’m still dealing with it. Not the numbers, though. The disappointment.

“I love your watch,” said the woman at Canada’s border.

“$15 at American Eagle,” I bragged, paying homage to my middle class upbringing.

“Oh, wow. I thought it was a Rolex.”

A compliment? Nay, a warning.

You see, I live in a neighborhood that does not have many realtor offices. In other words, I live in a neighborhood that I don’t want my parents to Google. In other words, if a human in charge of keeping Canada’s border safe couldn’t tell the difference between my watch and a Rolex, I might need to stop using it as arm decor. That, or someone’s going to be disappointed.