Woke up with a tummyache from too much homemade chipotle beef chili for dinner, which had been spicy in the mouth, deceptively peaceful in the interim, but a fire in the belly by morning. Listening to
Erlend Øye's DJ-Kicks while getting ready had me shower-crooning "It's a fine day, people open windows, they leave their houses, just for a short while...", as well as experimenting with some C-scales in various vowel sounds as I'd been instructed the night previous by an online
How To Sing tutorial. The French electronic "
Rubicon" track number five had me imagining an 80s club lit by neon tubes staccato pulsing up the hallway as a crew of three in bright ripstop military jumpsuits struts their way to center front, the crowd clearing a circle to cheer on their superior moves, with a break in by a B-girl spinning windmills on the floor. As I headed towards the wardrobe, I spotted the
lightning bolt Eley Kishimoto dress I wore yesterday and knew that 'something a bit 80s dance party' was on the menu for the day. Reaching in, my hand made contact with the buttery soft pima cotton of my lightweight knit black boat neck tunic, which didn't fulfill my initial conception of 80s style, but I realized just what was needed. In combination with the exceptional comfort factor that the tunic would afford me, the party could be had in my pants: shiny dark turquoise capri leggings picked up
buy-it-now on Ebay. Additional component came in the answer to my modesty needs, as while I never wear a bra (HATE, DIE, KILL, BURN) I almost always wear at least some sort of underlayer, today's being a slinky silver lurex flecked turquoise tank thrifted a month back, which peeks out from the boatneck in a pleasing nod to 80s off-the-shoulderness. Initially the outfit was to be completed by a thrifted pair of white and turquoise spectator pumps (and a
silk scarf with white, turquoise, red, browns around the neck to echo the use of white below) but when I headed down the hill I heard that unmistakeable scrape of exposed metal on sidewalk from a worn down heel tip and had to head right back to the house to sub out for my zippered pointy Zara pumps.
Hoofing it up the stairs of the parking garage and jayrunning across the street left me breathless as I intersected with a correspondent who held the lobby door open for me. We barely missed the aperture of a closing elevator which revealed a few other office plebes, so we rode the opposite car alone, straight to the top floor. I smothered the headphone bud dangling from my right ear to prevent the chant of '
TOO DRUNK TO FUCK' from reaching the ears of my colleague. After a bit of pregnant silence and poorly aimed gentle smiles, I asked if he had his door pass while I rummaged through my tote for mine. He slyly asked "I might... what's it worth to you?" but my hand emerged triumphant, thick white card in hand.
