Underneath my yellow skin

Genderfucking is fun

I’m currently bingeing on Harry Styles. I liked What Makes You Beautiful when One Direction sang it, but I was embarrassed to admit it. It’s a perfectly fine catchy pop song, but they were a boy band, and I was way too old for that shit. Plus, I don’t like boy bands in general, though my mania for New Kids on the Block belies that statement. I liked some songs by Backstreet Boys and NSYNC, but I would not call myself a fan.

But there’s something about Harry Styles. It’s not that he’s cute, though he is. If he were ten or fifteen years older, he would be my type. Dark hair, androgynous with a low, growly voice. He’s comfortable in his sexuality and with dressing however the fuck he wants to dress. In fact, he and Lizzo are my perfect pairing at the moment. Both are so resolutely themselves and happy about it, it makes me smile.

I’ve included the video of them at Coachella singing Harry’s smash hit (that I mentioned above) while both are dressed in hot pink. I am currently in a Lizzo phase as well, and, yes, I know I’m late to the party. But I love that she’s unabashedly herself and does not give a fuck who knows it. There’s a video of the two of them singing Juice together, and Lizzo is wearing something revealing and hot. Harry is dresses as bookish nerd is his button-down and striped sweater-vest.

Right now, I’m sitting on my couch in a black tank top and black microfiber boy shorts. I have my hair pulled up in a sloppy bun, secured with a black satin scrunchy. And I have never felt sexier or hotter in my life. Not when I was dressed to the nines. Not when I was skinny as fuck. No. Me being fat and wearing the minimal amount of clothing I can and not get arrested if I were outside my house with my hair haphazardly bunched on the top of my head, not having done a lick of grooming, and I feel fine as hell.

I will admit that it’s partly because of the muscles I’m growing. But, it’s also my recent (how long can I call it recent) medical trauma and the care I received in the hospital. I cannot emphasize how well I was treated. I know it’s not always the case, but my medical team was so respectful and caring. They treated me as a person, not a thing (with the exception of one guy. He wasn’t rude, but it was clear that taking care of me was the least-favorite part of his job. Which, fair. I would not want to wipe someone’s ass, either. But even this guy was professional, quick, and efficient), and they realized that I was in a very vulnerable position.

Think about it.

I had died twice and came back to life twice. I had been unconscious for a week. Then I suddenly woke up. I was weak and pumped full of drugs. I was tethered to half-a-dozen different diagnostics. I had no say in what I could do or when  I could do it. “You have to meet with the PT now.” “Ok.”

What else was I going to say? I had to press a button in order to be taken to the bathroom (which I hated doing. I caused more than one accident because I refused to push it. One time, the nurse asked, exasperated, if I had forgotten I had a button. I said sulkily that I hadn’t forgotten; I just didn’t want to push it). It could have been degrading, but it wasn’t because my team members were thoughtful and compassionate. They didn’t act as if my body was disgusting or gross to touch.

That week also showed me that my body was sturdy as fuck. It saw me through non-COVID-related walking pneumonia, two cardiac arrests, and a stroke. All within twenty minutes of each other. Had to have my heart defibbed and EpiPen-jabbed, too. And I did not have to do one lick of rehab. I can do everything I did before my medical trauma, and more. My body is STRONK. As a result, you can’t say shit to me about my body. My body is a deity, and I won’t brook any bullshit to the contrary.

As a result, I love my body now. I absolutely love it. Like, I’m obnoxious about it. I can’t shut up some days about it. Honestly, I know that if I ever go to a party, I’m going to natter on and on about it. I’m very aware that it’s not something I can suggest as a way to change someone’s life, either. “Feel bad about your body? Have a life-threatening medical trauma and you’ll be all better!”

As for feeling sexy, I want to ride this train as far as I can take it. I’ve bought more of these tank tops and microfiber boy shorts–by the way, my brother dropped the hot tip about microfibers and I’m all about it now. I don’t want to wear makeup because it feels terrible on my face. Plus, I tried to wear makeup in a time when there was not much hypoallergenic makeup. I may try lipstick again because that’s what I wore back when I actually tried to wear makeup, but the last time I did it, I could not stand the way it felt on my lips.

I like tunic tops and bought a red floral one the last time I bought a real shirt. It looks so cute and I love how comfy it feels. I bought black pants with an elastic waistband and flowy hems. I like either very flowy garments or really streamlined clothing, but nothing in between. Oh, and I hate jeans. I haven’t worn jeans in over two decades. The last time I bought them, I was at my skinniest (important point) and was at Target with my then-boyfriend. We were both looking for jeans. He picked up several pairs with 36/34 or whatever he wore and did not even try them on. I, on the other hand, took dozens of pairs into the fitting room, from size 0 to 14, and none of them fit well. None. This was hours I tried on jeans. At that moment, I gave up the fight as futile and have not worn jeans since.

The reason I mention my size is because I was at my skinniest at that time and still had difficulties finding jeans that fit. When I was fat, it was exponentially harder. Once I decided to give up on jeans, I felt so free. Flowing pants are the only thing I wear now if I need something more formal than sweatpants.

It’s interesting to see how my fashion sense has changed over the years. When I was a kid, I had no clue what was popular or trendy. I wore whatever my mom bought/made for me. When I was a teenager, I still had no idea what to wear. I was so nerdy looking with my plastic pink-framed oversized round glasses, permed hair, pastel sweaters, and jeans with stitching on the butt. I looked horrible, to be honest.

Then, in college, I entered my funky eccentric phase. I let my hairdresser cut my hair however she wanted because it was fun and I trusted her. I wore mismatching earrings that were big and flashy (I used to have four in one ear and five in the other. I kept studs in the top ones and huge dangling ones in the lobe holes). I dressed mostly in black with leggings, mini-skirts, and turtlenecks. I actually wore makeup for my first year. I looked pretty damn hot, though I did not think so at the time.

Then, in my twenties, I did a modified version of this. In my thirties and forties, it was pretty much sweats and t-shirts all thee time. All black. Now in my fifties, I’m ready to explore fashion. Not in any hardcore way, but just spice up my game a bit. Add some color. These are my bonus days. I might as well make them as bold as possible.



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