I Don't Like "What Not To Wear"

I ran sprints, then jogged four miles today. I've been running sprints for several weeks, but I haven't jogged anything close to four miles in months, so the activity left me exhausted. As soon as I reached home I showered because I was afraid that if I sat down, I might not feel like getting up, and it's seriously  uncomfortable not to shower after a run.

I needed to use my inhaler after I showered. My inhaler was downstairs in the family room. I walked down the stairs, located my inhaler, and realized I was too tired to walk back upstairs. The sofa in our family room is comfortable, so I fell onto it. My brother had left the TV on after leaving the room, as he frequently does. The TV was turned to TLC (I can't believe my brother was actually watching that channel), and "What not To Wear" was airing. I despise that show with a passion I usually reserve for pedophiles and people who mistreat animals, but the remote control was not within my reach, and I was much too tired to get up and search  for the place my brother had stashed it. (We find remote controls in the oddest of places, including the in refrigerator and inside the clothes dryer when my brother is home.) Anyway, without a remote control, I was forced to hear "What not To Wear' until I fell asleep on the sofa.

My brother says I should be immobilized and forced to view twenty-four consecutive hours of "What Not To wear" episodes. He does not approve of my wardrobe. According to Matthew, other than pajamas, all of my clothing fits into one of three classifications; pre-teen wear, slut wear, and pre-teen slut wear. My brother does not understand that my choices in clothing are limited because of my size. For the record, neither of my parents has a poblem with my wardrobe. I'm not sure why Matthew feels so strongly about it.

My primary issue with "What Not To Wear" is that the hosts, antagonists, fashion consultants, or whatever one chooses to call the man and woman who rip apart the fashion choices of everyone who appears on the show, treat each of the show's participants as though  committing a fashion faux pas is akin to a moral transgression as opposed to a difference in taste. we've all seen clothing so poorly chosen that expecting others to look at a person wearing it is an act of unkindness, but the clothing I've seen in the "before" segments of the program does not, in my opinion, reach that level of hideosity.

I do think the hair and makeup consultants on the show usually make positive changes, although it wouldn't surprise me to learn that the "before" makeup or lack of it  is an exaggeration of how the person typically looked before the cosmeticians/aestheticians (or whatever they call themselves) worked their magic.

Anyway, I fell asleep on the sofa listening to the fashion consultants denigrate the participant's fashion selections. Then I had a nightmare in which two very mean girls from my past trapped me in a school restroom into which my entire wardrobe had been transported. They were ripping and torching all of my clothing, one garment at a time. When they finished with everything else, they started pulling off the clothing I was wearing, which is similar to the way something happened to me in real life in a school restroom. When my dad shook me to wake me up, I was screaming.

I'm not going to watch that program again even if I have to close my eyes and put my fingers in my ears to avoid it.

Rebecca, according to my dad, my cousin had just over a foot (I think he said 32 centimeters) of his colon removed. It was from the descending and sigmoid portions of his colon -- mostly the descending segment. The colon supposedly was infected with bacteria to the point that it resembled the work of ulcerative colitis, but wasn't. He lost a lot of blood, but all the blood with which he was transfused was from safe sources. The main reason my uncle didn't take my cousin to a hospital in South America was because he was worried about the blood supply there.

My cousin will probably be released on Saturday or Sunday.

Peace.