>dum diddy dum diddy diddy dum dum.

I got a new baggy long-sleeved white Reebok shirt. I like long-sleeved white Reebok shirts. Actually, they don’t necessarily have to be Reebok. I like those athletic-baggy-breathable-non-100% cotton chingaleros that don’t shrink when you wash them.

Men’s clothes rock. They’re comfortable. An aspect that seems to be unimportant in women’s fashions. Women’s clothes suck. I mean, I own some dresses and skirts and a couple of (gasp!) pink sweaters, but for the most part, when I’m at home, the gym, or going to the grocery store, men’s clothes is where it’s at.

Granted, I do not wear men’s jeans…with my small waist and ample hips, it’s just not a possibility. But I’ll slip on my husband’s sweat pants faster than a mo-fo. Commando. A bit of information he oftentimes is not too happy about. (I mistakenly thought he’d find it sex-aaay. Humph. Men.

Now, I know most men love those chicks who wear the ass-crack jeans and midriff shirts. That’s their prerogative. But seriously, there are so many chicks that wear them who should NOT wear them. I work in a four-star restaurant and you wouldn’t believe how many chicks not only come dressed in jeans, but jeans fitting so that you can see their cellulite peeking through the back of the suede-covered chairs. And I have to walk back-and-forth through the dining room with these chunky little eyesores all over the damn place. Come on, guys…that is SO not hot.

I’m just glad I’m married. When I was 20, jeans still had a waist and you could get a decent bra for $10. Now the jeans hang off yer ass and the bras are $40 apiece and must come from Victoria’s Secret. Fortunately, if I want to make my husband chase me into the bedroom, all I gotta do is strip nekkid, which costs nuthin’. And that’s not to say I let myself go just because I’m married…I mean, I take care of my skin, eat healthily, love the Chappelle show and pro basketball…I just find so many non-superficial aspects of our relationship so much more appealing than thongs and belly-chains.

And honestly, me and women my age (30) are just way too old for that shit. Come on. Grow up already.

Besides…I enjoy the fact that I am 5’11” with cute moderately-sized guns and could bench press two of these uber-waifs then hurl them down a flight of stairs. Chicks with priorities that fucked up need to have their asses kicked.

Of course you primordial catfight-loving men would love to attribute this to jealousy. Bah. I am so much more kick-ass than chicks who invest their time in shopping and tanning salons. Actually, in some miniscule way, I pity them. Being that involved with your appearance has to be exhausting. And the constant competition that ensues in public venues can’t possibly be good for your self-esteem. What is going to happen to these girls in fifteen years? (shudder).

I am fundamentally different than most women even my age. I go to sporting events with my husband and actually watch the game, drink beer and have garlic fries. I kick ass at Grand Theft Auto and Unreal Tournament. I have a table and miter saw in my studio, and handle all the home repairs as my husband isn’t what I’d exactly call tool-savvy. A lot of the women I know that are my age are into velour jogging suits and Tommy Hilfiger tennies for their toddlers, play dates and competing with other soccer moms via their collection of Tiffany jewelry and Louis Vuitton handbags. Not I. I have fun with my life. I carry a CamelBack backpack. I have no Tiffany jewelry. I compete with no one – I don’t need to. I have a fantastic marriage, a great family, awesome dogs, talent, a good, well-paying job, intelligence, and legs that can squat-press 250 lbs. Like I said, I kick ass.

Anyway, that’s enough. This is bordering on being so long as to become boring.

Vouolez-voulez-vous kick-ass

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