One of the difficulties of being a writer with anxiety is that there are so many things I want to write about that I don't write about because they involve people that I am determined to meet and hang out with someday. Like John Barrowman.
God damn, I fucking love that guy. Not in the 'I am so totally going to marry him someday' sense, though, seeing as I'm a bit lacking in the Penis Department. And he's a bit lacking in the 'I Like Vaginas' Department. And also he's been in a committed relationship since before I was capable of stringing together grammatically coherent sentences (I believe his partner is an architect, which makes me wonder if what my would-be architect friend from college said about architecture majors having to be slightly masochistic rings true on a global scale, or if that's just a Montana State thing (seriously, I rarely ever saw friends from the architecture college because they literally had no time for a social life, or healthy amounts of sleep, for that matter). I imagine it differs depending on the university, though). Not to mention I'd never want to marry someone who thinks walking in high heels is an important skill to master, even if he does play one of the most badass guys on television. Because seriously, I can walk in them without looking like a complete moron, but fuck high heels. Fuck. High. Heels.
So, I was going to talk about anxiety and people I admire and respect, but since I brought up high heels my brain is refusing to let me think about anything besides my hatred of shoes and dresses, so let's just pretend that this is what I set out to write about, shall we? Anyway, I've found that whenever I get new shoes, with one or two exceptions, they almost always end up having one of the following problems: either they give me blisters on my heel or little toe, or they end up being just tight enough with certain socks that I start to lose feeling in my little toe. The one exception I've found is the Keen brand, but both pairs of Keens I've owned over the years have been what might have a technical name but I don't know it so I'll describe them as sandals with toe protection, and when your hometown averages over 200 inches of snow in a winter, it's not really the best idea to walk around in shoes that are mostly just straps attached to the sole. When the day comes that I finally can buy snow boots (by which I mean walking boots, not snowboard boots that are just comfortable enough to be okay for walking through snowy areas but a pain in the ass to wear while running across town to catch the bus because you missed it by like 15 seconds and you were supposed to meet some friends on it) then I'll probably look at the Keen brand, because they've been much kinder to my feet than most other shoes I've had. I think this is mostly because I don't know a goddamn thing about trying on shoes at the store and I usually get emotionally attached to the first pair I try on so I can't force myself to use logic and I convince myself that they're perfect even though I'm starting to lose feeling in my little toe because I don't want the shoes to feel bad. So really I don't hate shoes themselves but rather my inability to find a pair that doesn't end up hurting my feet in the end. Dresses, on the other hand...
It took me a long time to figure out what exactly it was about dresses that bothered me so much. There is, of course, the obvious fact that I enjoy a lot of outdoor sports that are not conducive to dress-wearing, coupled with the fact that I worry too much about accidentally giving someone a view of my undies, but there was something else that I couldn't quite nail down until youtube vlogger KatersOneSeven described it perfectly: I don't like it when my thighs rub together. It is a horribly uncomfortable feeling and it is pretty much why I will never sleep in the nude, especially when it's hot out because being all hot and sweaty just makes it even worse. This is also why I am determined to avoid ever living someplace where 60ºF is considered cold. My body has no understanding of heat regulation, so I can't even wear a tight-fitting t-shirt without breaking out into a sweat, even if my hands are getting stiff from cold at the exact same time. This is why I have purchased exactly one dress and two skirts in the past ten years. It ain't worth it, plus where the hell am I going to dress up fancy around here? Half the people I see in dresses around here are guys in drag at the Mardi Gras parade. Which makes me think that if John Barrowman were to come here for a visit, he'd fit right in.
So... back to my original point, it does get hard to write about stuff without feeling horribly self-conscious and dreading any contact with anyone mentioned out of fear that they'll read it and decide that they hate me because I've somehow offended them by acknowledging their existence and I just realized that none of this makes any sense which just proves my point that anxiety is stupid and having it is stupid and that's why I'm on drugs now.
So, Mr. Barrowman, if you do happen to read this, then congratulations, you now know all about my feet and my dislike of certain body parts rubbing together. I will make it to a convention or a signing or something eventually, and I promise I'll take my meds beforehand because I really don't want to be that one creepy fan who is clearly mentally unbalanced and can't seem to get her foot out of her mouth, even though that will probably happen anyway but since you've admitted to putting your foot in your mouth on several occasions I assume you'll be understanding and cool about it and you'll get to hear all about how my dog looks at her rear in sheer confusion whenever she lets out a loud fart. It'll be great.
Edit: disclaimer: this post (and also this disclaimer) was written while I was mildly sleep-deprived and well after the Adderall had worn off, and let me tell you, when I'm tired and off my ADD meds, shit gets really weird.
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