#17 and #12: Taming the Wild Leopard (prints)

I've been so busy juggling personal stuff (stalker doctors, resurrected boyfriends, 90s dance club hits), that I've admittedly fallen off the "Hey, this is what I blog about" horse (which is for the best, since riding horses scares the shit out of me). So, having gotten off that scary-ass horse and reboarded a train, I'm now ready to backtrack and go over items I've checked off my list. I'll be doing this in addition to sharing any fascinating factoids about marriage, love and limerence uncovered during my self-assigned research, so expect some fantastically schizophrenic posts on the horizon.

#17 on my Hitch List, aka "Restock entire underwear drawer with new inventory," is done. Nothing sucks more than reading a literal laundry list of other peoples' undies, so I'll spare you itemized details. What I will say is that, after much arguing, the Victoria's Secret salesdemon inadvertently helped me bang out another Hitch List item, #12, aka "Break one personal beauty law." For me, that law was no leopard or cheetah print, EVER. It has been a personal fashion maxim since 2000. Here's just a few reasons why:

That personal beauty law was cemented by my first college roommate, a girl named Jessica who insisted everyone call her "Jasmine." On move-in day, my parents and I keyed into my very first dorm room (my own bohemian haven where I could smoke cannabis and read many leather-bound books!!) to find everything in the room, from curtains to throw rugs to trash cans to wall hangings, had been done up in a leopard print theme. One of the two college-issue twin beds wore leopard sheets and was accented with spotted throw pillows. Jasmine stood in the center of the room, a wide smile on her glossy lips. "HI, I'm your roomie! Don't you just LOVE it??" she cooed, gesturing around.

(If you listened closely during that moment, you could actually hear a piece of my mother, a tomboy who once made high school headlines as the first young woman on Long Island to letter in four consecutive varsity sports, die inside.)

The image of that room flashed before my eyes as I stood in my black, Very Sexy bra and bikini briefs with the leopard-pitching salesdemon. Our conversation went something like this:

Her: Those fit great! (holding up satin leopard bra and panty set) And I think this will be adorable.

Me: No.

Her: Why?

Me: I don't wear leopard.

Her: Why?

Me: I'll look like a Stat Rat.

Her: A Stat Rat?

Me: Crispy-haired bimbo with orange tan from Staten Island.

Her: You don't have a tan.

Me: I-- (I'm so pale I make Dita Von Teese look like Djimon Hounsou. Low blow, Salesdemon.) --whatever, I don't wear leopard.

Her: Come on, it's very sexy.

Me: I'm wearing the Very Sexy.

Her: That's a Very Sexy. I'm saying leopard print is "very sexy." The Very Sexy does come in leopard though--so do the Angels and Sexy Little Things bras. Would you like to try those too? I'll get those too.

(Salesdemon exits dressing room, leaving me with the leopard bra and panty set)

Me: I wish I had a penis.

Eventually I crumbled. Plus the bra fit so well I can now hold a full champagne flute between my tits without spilling.

Here's hoping my slutty new snow leopard bra and matching thong help my nether-regions operate with all the grace and agility of an over-sized house cat....or at least a Stat Rat.