Hot People Eat Muffin Tops for Breakfast

I know it's been a long time when blogger asks me for my password. And then I get it wrong. Twice.

I REALLY know it's been a long time when I have to check my blog to see what I last wrote about. You may (or may not) recall that it was about finally being comfortable in my skin.

But some recent events have suggested to me that perhaps I'm getting a little TOO comfortable in my skin.

It's been a fantastic summer - lots of drinks on the beach, lazing about on the water, and I've just finished up a really awesome vacation revisiting the east coast with my beau. Basically, the last month-ish has been an excess of nothing-much.

And it's (more than) starting to show. I went for a bike ride to a nearby park with my boyfriend yesterday. Though he was quick to point out that the bike I used wasn't a performance bike, was not meant to ride up big hills, didn't actually have brakes or speeds on it, this was not really enough to comfort me after I found myself in a heart-thumping, panting heap on the grass at the top of a big hill. Especially since I had actually walked the bike up the hill.

I'm finding myself backsliding and I don't like it. I'm busy, and as a result I'm sitting too much and eating too much food I didn't cook and the result is that sweaty, panting mass I described above. I thought I'd made some pretty foolproof resolutions in January, and by God, I'm going to stick to them come hell or high water or (most likely outcome:) frequent relapse.

I've started already - I've cooked three meals in a row with actual foods that came from an actual grocery store. I even put some in the freezer for later use. This is huge, people. And even though I spent most of yesterday evening sitting and cursing at my sewing machine, in the back of my mind I was thinking about going swimming today. And again later this week. And MAYBE for a jog. And this is the big thing. That bike ride (if you can even call it that) was a big wake up call for me. I've never been so obviously (to myself) out of shape. I NEED to do something. Not only because muffin tops are definitely not hot (and I'm less and less able to avoid them), but also because heart disease isn't either. And I see a lot of heart disease these days.

All of this brought me to one big conclusion. I need to get on that "do less" thing. Stat. Which means I'll have to use a word I hate to use. "No." And I don't mean that I need to learn to say no, and to put myself first, and blar-di-blar in one of those Oprah Magazine kind of ways. Saying yes has meant a lot of awesome things for me. I have not consistently had so much fun as I've had in the last year and a half of saying yes to just about everything that's come my way. It just mean I really have to consider the impact of saying yes. Everything I do, I have to resolve myself to consider whether saying yes to doing it will allow me to 1. make and eat actual foods 80% of the time, and 2. sustain the regular movement of my body in ways other than rolling over in bed.

Ok - let's do it.

Hot People Admit Defeat

Alright - so you probably noticed a considerable lack of activity coming from this little corner of cyberspace. There are a few reasons for that.

But first, I have terrible news. Plan Ab-Tastic was a failure. I cannot say that my abs were rock hard by my twenty-seventh birthday. I can't even say they were on their way. I'm certainly not ready to post pictures. Sadness.

The good news is that I know why this has happened. The bad news is that I am solely and completely at fault here. In an effort to integrate myself into this community, a community I'm still reasonably new to, I took on a little too much. And by "a little too much," I mean that over the last two weeks, I've had commitments seven days per week. As a result, I've had little to no time for a. cooking actual food for myself, and certainly no time for b. moving my body any more vigorously than is required for playing the piano. Probably this has contributed to the anti-hardening of my abs, because if I want to be really honest with myself, my abs actually got softer in the last month and a bit.

Admitting defeat is harsh. I don't like it. However, if I consider the overall cost-benefit analysis, I think I gained so much more in terms of spiritual nourishment running around to rehearsals for eight billion different concerts and performances than I ever would have by losing the fat around my middle. So many people know my name now, and that was really part of the goal. I exceeded the legal capacity of my apartment with a party I threw for my own birthday. In the past month and a half I learned to play (quite well, also) 30+ reasonably challenging pieces on the piano - a talent I'd let go to seed when I was in university. So the time hasn't been a waste, even though I did waste a month or so of my gym membership.

And, really, just because I didn't succeed right away with this ab-tastic goal doesn't mean I really have to quit it altogether. I'm planning some trips in the spring and summer. Trips where I might be wearing bathing suits. Hrmmmm.....And I've also learned some valuable lessons about time management and saying no to things that I don't absolutely want to do. I am armed for the future, and a sweet-looking midsection is headed my way. Eventually...

Hot People Like Diet Cherry Cola

I've had two things on my mind lately. Well...three things...but the third one is really more of a private conversation than a public mind-drool, so I'll wait until the time is right for that one.

1. Stuff that I want.

2. Stuff that I like.

So, I had a wicked jones for a diet Dr. Pepper tonight.

***This is not the point. This is that thing I do where I talk about something mundane and then relate it to some deep part of my internal being and then blow everyone's mind (or, maybe just mine)

Anyway, I had a wicked jones for a diet Dr. Pepper tonight. I was eating some homemade shortbreads (be jealous!), and they were a little too short for the hot weather and I needed to wet my whistle with something other than expired milk. As I walked over to the Mac's, I thought the good Dr. might have a delicious blend 23 flavours that would do the job. I was really hoping one of those flavours was aspartame. Unfortunately, Mac's milk could not deliver. I knew I was asking too much; who am I to think that I should be able to get a calorie-free beverage in my preferred flavour at the only retail establishment open after 10 p.m. four nights a week? I'm currently drinking the full-sugar version, which is, as we speak, boring tiny holes in my teeth and then somehow depositing the excavation materials on my waistline.

The same thing happened when I tried to make hot artichoke dip a few months ago. Canned artichoke hearts? Hilarious notion! I had to settle for hot spinach dip. It was tasty, but not exactly what I was looking for.

Ok...so, what I'm getting at, is that this town just doesn't seem to deliver on exactly what I want. I can get what-I-want-adjacent, or two complementary halves of what I want...but never the genuine article, it seems. And I think you know what I'm talking about here. I've been pretty relationship-focused lately. Even when I let good ole rational brain in to say something cogent about trying to make friends and have a good time, underneath it all, I'm really hoping that every interaction I make is going to lead to something lasting (by this, I mean, more than a few weeks) and, let's face it...coital.

Alas, I recently came to the conclusion that this isn't going to happen. At least, not in the foreseeable future. All signs point to the apparent reality that I have entered a period in my life that I've lovingly monikered the ERA OF EFFED UP PLATONIC RELATIONSHIPS. A bird's eye view of my recent dealings with the opposite sex will show you this: it's LIKE we're dating...except we're definitely not dating. This is despite the fact that sometimes their self-described physical type looks an awful lot like me. This is despite the fact that sometimes their self-described personality type sounds an awful lot like me. And for a long time, this was really confusing to me. WHY would people more or less describe me, to my face, as the kind of person they really want to date, if they don't actually want to date me?

So, on the weekend, a friend of mine clarified it for me. I described one of these effed-up platonic situations, and he said, "Huh, so you're the incase of emergency, break glass girlfriend."

And then the lights turned on. And suddenly, I was enraged. I am the safety girlfriend. When all other options have been exhausted, they know I'll do a reasonable job as a pinch-hitter girlfriend. And that's why these dudes keep dangling carrots in front of me and then pulling them out of my reach just before I grab onto them.

On to the stuff I like. In particular, I mean stuff I like about me. I've been thinking a lot about that question my friend asked back when I couldn't cry (Problem solved, btw. This song did the trick. Bawled my face off).

I think it's an important question to be able to answer. So important that I was discussing it with a few members of my family. My mother disagrees. She thinks that people shouldn't be able to answer that question unless they want to admit they're full of themselves. In fact, her response was so visceral that she had to get up out of her chair, to illustrate that she hates people who haven't got a problem saying "I am SOOO great! I LIKE myself! I'm good at walking (she marched on the spot to illustrate this point), and I'm good at smiling, and I'm a good person!" And frankly, I think I wouldn't like them either. Because I'd be jealous of them.

But that's because I'm not very good at smiling. Observe. (In the interest of full disclosure, the drink beside me is mine. And it was tasty. The bottle of pills is not mine. That's cat medicine. I don't know how it tastes).

Seriously, though. I'm already full of myself. I have almost 100 pages of text broadcast through cyberspace devoted wholly to myself. Wouldn't it be great if that full-of-myself-ness had a positive spin to it?

So, instead of thinking of all the things I don't like about myself (like my smile, and my acne, and my fat ass, and...wait, right...that's what I'm NOT doing this time), I really should think about the things I like.

So, at first I thought I liked the fact that I'm 100% genuine. I do not know how to bullshit. But then I remembered how my 0% bullshit policy gets me into trouble A LOT. So, I scratched that idea. Then, I realized that the thing I like best about myself is the fact that I'm pretty effing resilient. I've had a lot of shitty life, and a particularly bad run the past few months, but I keep getting up and coming out swinging. I like a lot of other things too. I'm looking pretty curvy these days, and I have really nice eyes. And hair. And boobs. (Please ignore the mess on my coffee table. And my shitty furniture)

Ok - back to that back-up relationship thing. Yeah, that makes me mad. And I'm realizing that I ought to like myself way too much to be THAT girl. So, while a small bit of me still burns a candle for some of these dudes, when and if whatever emergency arises and they decide they want to break that glass, I've gotta think long and hard about whether being behind that glass is EXACTLY WHAT I WANT.

And in the meantime, I'm going to have to resign myself to going without exactly what I want. I can compromise on my chilled cherry-flavoured cola beverages every once in awhile, but I'm pretty sure I don't want to compromise on this anymore.

So, good sirs, I am pleased to be friends with you. But there's no need to continue to lead me on. I'm going a different way.

Hot People Have Their Reasons

Maybe it's the perpetual cycle of cruel teasing sunniness followed by inexplicable snow, rain and cloudy weather. Maybe it's the cosmic coincidence that I woke up both slightly hungover AND with my monthly inconvenience and could do little more this morning than haul my sorry ass from the bed, to the bath (standing up in the shower was just too much for me today), to the couch to watch a children's film and drink copious amounts of milky tea. Maybe it's because my new hairdresser alerted me to the presence of grey hair in my coif last week, and now every time I look at myself in the mirror, I keep thinking I see huge chunks of grey. Maybe it's the fact that, though I was invited to something party-esque last night (social life! huzzah!) and got pleasantly tipsy, tipsiness yesterday always results in feelings like this today.

I don't know what it is, but I'm kind of in an emo funk (imagine the fusion of THOSE musical genres...blech...well, that's how I feel). I've been writing this stuff for over a year now - and I think I have improved on the hotness front. I think I'm a lot more interesting than I was just over a year ago...for serious. It's been hard work, too - or at least painful - what with the brazilian waxes, unfortunate skin reactions due to experiments with makeups, face creams, and cleansers, and constant attempts to get my bicycle up hilariously steep hills in an effort to make my ass look sweet. But what am I doing this for? And for whom?

This whole thing started as a way to feel good about myself - and to a certain extent it's worked. But I still find myself feeling like this a little more often than I'd like. And what have I really got to show for it, anyway? A handful of slightly regrettable one-night stands (some only regrettable because they never got past that one night), a few pounds melted away (but really, only a few), a better handle on the application of makeup, slightly more flattering clothing and a seriously twisted co-dependent relationship with online dating sites.

And when feeling good about myself didn't seem to be motivation enough, I added spite to the mix - remember plan ab-tastic? I'm 100% sure that decision was all about making dudes who'd taken a pass on me experience palpable regret when they realize they missed out on the hot, hot bod I will, of course, one day have.

But now I'm pretty sure that I'm measuring my self-like by how much boys like me. And I think it's been that way for quite some time. AND I think that's not really very hot at all.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Incidentally, I think I discovered, through observational study of behaviour, the secret to my not really caring if particular boys like me. Guy friends: if you suspect I'm interested in being more than friends with you and you'd like to leave that particular queue (cuz I'll be honest, there are more than a few of you out there), here's what you should do. Do something forgivably dick-ish to me. Seriously. I mean, not super dick-ish - unless you also want to stop being friends altogether. "Accidentally" tell me I look fat in those pants, then subsequently apologise. That kind of thing. I'm pretty sure this is a no-fail plan.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So, back to the original question - why am I doing this? For whom?

I think it's kind of a cliché and sell-out-y to decide I'm hot when some guy I think is kind of cute decides I'm hot for me. It's got to be for some other reason.

In the last four months, almost 500 people have read this blog almost 1500 times. I'm not adept enough with my analytics program to know if that's a lot of people or not, but those are pretty astounding numbers to me. But why? Seriously, what are you reading this for? Because if I'm inspiring people, then I think that's hot. Even if it's just because I'm funny - that'd be ok too. Hot people are funny. Could I get some help with my crisis of conscience, or should I just pack it in?

Hot People Win, Even When They Lose

I've been noticing (mostly because it is completely obvious) that the growing up/goodbye to my youth process has involved a lot of "one last debate tournament"s. I know, I know. Nerdz!

But for serious - debating has been an invaluable and defining part of my life for almost a decade (yipes, I'm old!). Many readers will know this, but my main focus is actually judging the debates, and I've gotten pretty good at it over the past few years. So this past weekend, I was strong-armed at the last minute by some friends to judge at a pretty major tournament. Although geographically, I found myself in Toronto, I also inexplicably found myself (metaphorically) in a place called, by those in the know, the bin. The bin is where the bad debates happen - the ones devoid of reason, organization or articulation, let alone any sort of panache. It's a place I haven't found myself in a few years, and I've gotta say, it put me into a bit of a tailspin.

First of all, I've had some...exchanges...with a few of the people in charge. It was almost as though they were holding something against me. Like perhaps I had written some scathing and untoward things about them on a public internet site or something...hmm...so for a while I thought it was just vengeance.

Here's where, in retrospect, it gets a little cringe-worthy and unattractive. Soon after I came to my senses and decided nobody could be so petty (right?...nobody would be...) as to seek vengeance for a blog post from months ago in which all parties (except myself) remained more or less anonymous, I started to have a small (Seriously, it was only tiny. And I definitely kept it to myself as well...) personal crisis about my skillz as a debate judge. There might have been some moist eyes threatening tears at a few moments. This is cringe-worthy for two reasons:

1. Who likes emo-girl traipsing around like a 17th century poet? I don't. I'm pretty sure I could have dealt with things a little more gracefully (although shit, I saw some bad debates this weekend). For example, I might have avoided referring to the complete injustice of my shitty weekend to everyone I met, or at the very least avoided opening every conversation with that topic. I might also have opted NOT to require everyone to list my accomplishments at top volume, in unison, before I unlocked the door to our accommodations and allowed them to enter.

2. It points to a greater problem with my life. When someone gets uppity because they've lost a debate, I go on an oft-ranted tirade about how the outcome of a debate round has no bearing on real life and nobody in real life is going to care whether you won your fifth round at the 2007 eastern invitational. Despite this firm belief, I've really made debating THE major priority in my life and I've done it for too long. Although my success in the field of debate judging (which, frankly, only a select few would even count as a REAL success) has served me well, it has been something I've cultivated to the exclusion of all other things and I think this is a little bit alarming. Like, I used to be good at other shit. I used to be an awesome lip sync artist (at high school dances, with my thumb-rophone), and I would kill at trivia contests (Reach for the Top FTW!) but I haven't done either of those things in like, forever. In conclusion, I really need to diversify my talent portfolio. Learning to be a french-speaking guitar hero is obviously already on the agenda...but I need to think of some other things to incorporate into my life so I can one day be awesome at them. Ideas? Anyone?

On the other hand, my relative abandonment of all reason and sense of purpose meant that, on balance, the rest of the weekend was pretty awesome.

First of all, I learned that I am effing amazing at playing damsel in distress (it helps when the distress is real). A number of dashing young men came to my aid. I think I only paid for half my drinks and I wasn't allowed to leave the dancefloor (in fact, I was forcibly removed from areas not technically dancefloor on a number of occasions). I also had one of the nicest and least "pressure-y to do more" makeout sessions I've ever had, and that was really refreshing.

Secondly, I drank my face off. The results of this were epic (although, recognizing that I already used my last chance to drink stupid amounts of alcohol, the hangover on Sunday was just as epic). I definitely danced like a rockstar that night. I also definitely fell out of a bunk bed. The resulting bruises (reflecting the pattern of the carpet) and rug burn are totally badass. My successful attempt at mounting the bunk bed ladder post-fall without the help of my two very concerned friends was just as badass. And I definitely spent the rest of the night spooning my friend's girlfriend to avoid a second fall.

In conclusion, while daytime Miss T wasn't very hot at all, I feel like my Saturday night was burning up just a little (at least, I felt sorta hot...). Now, how can I keep that fire ablaze?

Hot People Continuously Improve

Just after Christmas, I was sitting in the airport waiting for my flight with Porter, wearing the hat I had just knit for myself (it's hilariously too big, but I guess that's how the kids wear them these days) and an American Apparel bandeau under my carefully colour-coordinated scoop neck and cardi, with my well-used bags and my brand new ipod.

As I was sitting there, engaging in self-reflection, I realized I had achieved something special. I SO want to be the kind of girl who wears American Apparel merch and handmade outerwear. I want to be the girl waiting at the gate of an alternative discount airline (where the flight attendants wear pillbox caps), listening to music on a $300 piece of digital genius.

The only thing that wasn't quite right is that I was definitely listening to Aerosmith (circa 2001, no less...embarrassing) and not Belle and Sebastian (or some way indie-er indie band that I'm too out of it to have even heard of).

So in the spirit of never quite being perfect, I started thinking about my New Year's resolutions.

1. Plan Abtastic. Obvs. This must start in earnest in 2010 (I know it's already started, but I'm on vacay...so by 2010, I mean January 12th, 2010). This may mean I have to stop eating Brie wheels like one might eat an apple. It may also mean that I can't pretend that kissing boys is a reasonable alternative to actual exercise (although I keep finding myself making this justification, despite the ill-advisedness of the kissing in general).

2. Be employed. Ok...so I've been working on this since late November, but it's one I desperately need to fulfill. Desperately. I've been a student for 8 and a half years, and while I would never say I was "starving" (see: plan abtastic), I'm starting to feel the pinchy, and I'm starting to feel like I want to be (gasp!) an adult. One with adult furniture and plates I bought myself and haircuts I didn't get in somebody's basement.

Interestingly, yesterday I kind of got a job offer. It was an interesting paradox, as I was getting a ride from my Daddy to meet my friend so I could stay for supper, and talking on the cell-phone I needed help from my Mommy to get (yes, even at the tender age of 25!). As I was talking, my father kept whispering at me to say "Yes." instead of "Yeah, uh-huh, awesome, etc."

I'm pretty sure I'll be employed by year's end, but this adulthood thing is concerning to me. I can't even stop TALKING like a 14-year-old.

3. Learn to speak French. My Dad's a French teacher. It would then follow that I can speak French. Not so. I remember being cornered in grade 10 by a student teacher while I was waiting outside my French class (taught by my father...yeah...high school was kind of messed), and she asked me in French if we spoke it at home. She was super disappointed when I answered, in English "No, we don't. We're English," as my classmates snorted at me with ridicule. Well, it turns out my unilingualism is finally biting me in the ass. It'll be difficult to attain resolution 2, job offer notwithstanding, without achieving this goal. but French is the language of love, yes? So I should think of night-school French classes as hotness lessons, right?

4. Learn to play the guitar. Last year, I kept only one resolution, but made about ten. The only one I was able to keep was learning to knit. Anyway, I feel like hot people play open mic nights, and lead the chorus at beach bonfires, etc. I also feel like a guitar is way more portable than my piano (which I actually play very well, thanks). So, I'm going to learn to play guitar (at least a few songs). Step 1, get guitar. Step 2, learn to play it. I feel pretty confident because my track record with "learning to" do stuff has been pretty good. Like, 100% success over one year. The hidden advantage of this is that I also kind of feel like guitar instuctors are hot (since they also, obviously, play guitar), and this is obviously a score for me.

5. Have better taste in music. I was actually super-ashamed to say what I was listening to in the airport just after Christmas. There is really no excuse for my embarrassing taste in music. I know it's bad. The worst of it is I have a number of friends who are musicians and one who is actually quite a well-respected music critic. I must listen to better music. I must.

In that spirit, I have opened up the comments section of the blog. Please contribute to the late music education of this girl who has extended her adolescence (including its music) far too long, by posting your personal hot people can't live without this album pick. Please.

Hot People Take it Off and Take Stock

I've been internetless for the better part of a month, so these are catch-up posts - for those interested.

Waxing is nothing, if not a journey of discovery.

All warnings that I would scream out in pain at my first bikini wax were false. While it certainly was not like Christmas morning (except perhaps the one where my parents thought it would be hilarious to stuff my stocking with coal-shaped black licorice - which was quite painful indeed to my four-year old self), it was significantly less painful than I had prepared myself for, although the esthetician did suggest that the services she provided were nothing more than a "good starting point..." (I thought that full pictorial disclosure was not necessary in this case)

The waxing appointment also provided me with the discovery that, despite being appropriately waxed, I am not ready for a bikini. I came to this conclusion whilst sitting, pantsless, on the edge of the spa table wearing a pair of disposable underwear (this is a place I never thought I'd find myself). I was waiting for the esthetician to return with a pot of steaming hot wax, and had time to reflect upon the rolls made by my stomach flubber. When I realized I couldn't tell which roll was hiding my belly button (Now we're ALL glad I decided against pictures, aren't we?), I decided I could compromise with a tankini (obviously, though, with boob support).

I still have some questions about waxing, though. While I understand that it requires maintenance, I'm not sure how much, how often...any suggestions?

More contemplations: I'm moving again...and once again I'm finding myself taking stock of where I am, what I'm leaving behind and where I'm going. Where living in New Brunswick felt like a kind of limbo, this feels like a new beginning. This is good because I don't really feel like I've attained that hotness goal yet (and if hotness is a state of mind, feeling as though I've not succeeded yet must mean I've not succeeded yet).

I guess that since it's been six months since I started this blog, now is as good a time as any to redesign my strategy...so I'll be hot 6 months from now.

No, now.

Ok...NOW!

You get it.

Hot People Wear Stilettos and Shresses?

Ok - so I was innocently making my way to the very last debate meeting of my university career (I know what you're thinking, but nerds can be hot. This is a whole 'nother post). It is awards season on campus, and I imagine some faculty of hot people (like kinesiology or public relations) was giving out their pats on the back last night. Well...on my way to nerd central I found myself in a herd of girls in high heels and dresses so short they would still be suitable for a relatively comprehensive anatomy lesson.

Although most of these girls look like what I've wanted to look like since I was a tiny, tiny zygote, I question whether it is imperative for hot people to wear high heels and shresses. Because if it's a requirement, then I might have to pack it in right now.

I actually physically cannot wear high heels. I don't think the fates want me to. Here's a story (in five parts - well, actually three): When I was six, I remember watching Mary Martin's Peter Pan. For those of you who haven't had the pleasure, I definitely suggest you watch it (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DbQqH3c_Uwg). You might notice that it is obvious that she's being held up by some elaborate rope and pulley system. It was not obvious to my six-year-old eyes. Knowing that fairy dust is the means by which children get their bodies into the air, I asked Santa for some fairy dust (asking Santa never goes wrong - see Red Ryder BB Gun). Obviously, Santa couldn't just give me a vial of fairy dust, though - he'd have to disguise it or everyone would want some - in the bottle of perfume I found in my stocking. So, armed with my complete conviction that I had a bottle of fairy dust-infused perfume, I doused myself in it, donned my little brother's magician's cape (we had a bizarre childhood, he and I), and leaped from the top bunk of our bed with the firm belief that I would, in seconds, be floating through the air with the greatest of ease. Instead I merely fell the five or so feet from the top bunk - directly onto my ankle. The resulting EXTREME pain was fate's way of telling me that my feet were meant to be firmly on the ground, not elevated some inches above it.

I didn't listen. Every subsequent ankle-turning incident involved a set of shoes that was specifically designed to simulate levitation in some way. One summer, I tumbled down my friend's front steps wearing these:A year or so later, I slipped in my neighbour's icy driveway wearing a similar set of shoes meant for the winter months. This resulted in a sprained knee along with my ankle. I had gone too far and REALLY angered the gods.

This led me to the conclusion that I should tempt fate no more. And really, I don't need to lift myself off the ground any higher than I already am (since I'm 5'8"). Therefore, I only wear high heels of any sort for VERY special occasions.

Surely the abstention from one particular type of shoe does not exclude me altogether from, one day, being a hot, hot mama. Mamas can be hot wearing a pair of cute flats, right? Right?

I'm not even sure I believe myself.

On Shresses:

For the uninformed, shresses are dresses that could easily function as shirts, provided pants were worn beneath them. A reasonably conservative shress is shown here:

Maybe I'm ancient (I could very well be), but I don't think it's necessary to wear clothing that leaves NOTHING to the imagination. Why do people need to know that my vag is literally an inch away from the hem of my dress? Why is it ok that there's even a small possibility that it might come out to say hi to everyone if I dance extra-vigorously one night (or on a platform, or in an elevated cage)? There's also just something a little extra-trashy about the idea that NO CLOTHES need to be removed in order for access to the general vag area to be had. I mean, presumably, if someone has a chance at getting vag access, one could easily remove the vag-covering clothes in a private (or even semi-private) area, thus allowing access only to one person at a time (or two...or whatever - I don't judge - orgies aren't the same as public displays of vag).

Ok - perhaps I'm jealous that I couldn't pull off a shress even if I wanted to - but the principle still applies. And I refuse to wear them on this principle.

So do I have to give up my quest for hotness on principle? We'll see in six months, I guess.