Armor, Spanx, and Stupid Codpieces

Good morning sleepyhead,

I might be the sleepyhead.  You might have already danced with veils and coined scarves.  I wonder what early morning belly dancing could do for a day?

Spanx! I love them because they make certain clothes possible–the things that sit in my closet and wait and wait to not worry about jiggle.  And then, voila, with Spanx everything is possible! I wear them when I need a little armor.  The bad news is, they do feel damn good to take off at the end of the day, and they remind me of my mother, or more, me turning into my mother.

I feel a bit daft, or maybe it’s because I’m just getting through my first cup of the best part of waking up, but why is the crush over?  Was the constant judging done by these men a turn off? Which did you take shelter in, their concrete opinions, or the lone voice of the person who disagreed?

So this actually doesn’t apply at all, but it reminds me again of Orwell’s frustration with Dali–that people leave taste to waves of morality or sophistication, and rely on both to carry them off as well-informed and smart. He doesn’t have the answer for his own dislike for Dali, but he just wants us to engage with our opinions instead of nonchalantly offering them as a distinction of intelligence of upright servitude.  I like to hate on things as much as anybody else (probably more so), and the work Orwell is requesting sounds tiring.  I admire that you are more involved with the examination than the group zing of instant judgment and glee at the weakness of taste in others.

Ooh! Your glower, and I do imagine you glowering, at the judgy-judginess of these fellows (if I have understood correctly) directly ties to my dilemma with that certain sample of the male population I was fuming at yesterday.  They hold out their opinions like codpieces.  You can’t have a conversation with a codpiece.

For an upcoming Netflix/Hulu escapade, should we try to stay in the sixties?  There is something delicious about looking at the products of the time, while chewing over Madmen and pretending that Draper and boys (and Peggy!), could have whipped the thing up to sell us candy pink stoves.

Also, I had a dream last night that I was back at the spa, in my towel, looking for the steam rooms and the cups of salt.  I didn’t actually find them, but I knew they were around there somewhere.

To the wonders of salt! Salut!

Yours,

CF

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