Who am I to judge?

Judgey McJudgerton, that’s who.

I was walking through the Bay and just before being accosted by horrible stinky chemicals that people pay far too much money for on the assumption the chemicals will make them (the mistaken people) more attractive to other mistaken people, I saw “the lastest winter fashions”.

I don’t trust this kind of thing at the best of times, and any store that insults all women and our struggle to be paid equal wages for equal work; our struggle for equal rights, and indeed our struggle for *any* rights, including reproductive rights, is really not high on my list of places in whose fashion sense I am going to place my trust. Now look, I know I’m not the most fashion-sensible person on the block. In fact, I *do* get dressed in the dark, and it shows. But some of the things I see in this place make me think my Old Fart card can’t get laminated fast enough.

Picture this: walking through a smelly, overcrowded department store, you raise your elbows in the international sign of people who have no desire to be shopping. From all around, you see shirts bedazzled with sequins and skirts patterned after 60s wallpaper. Then you see the mannequins. They are “dressed” in what appeals to our inner sluts. There’s nothing wrong with your inner slut, let me say. Some of us foster our inner slut and encourage him and/or her, particularly at The Club. But the only thing I could think of was that someday, I will be forced to attend an ExMass party, and someone will be dressed in some of the shite that was on display on those mannequins in that store, and the only thing out of my mouth will be:

“Oh, sweetheart. That’s not a dress. That’s a shirt that forgot its curfew.”