There is never a good time for you to wear your own t-shirt.
I said this to stee last night as we got ready for the Rilo Kiley concert. I had just finished posting this, and realized I hadn’t worn mine yet.
“Your Wonder Killer shirt?” stee asked. “You should wear it. It’s not like it says ‘pamie.com’ on it, or anything.”
I wore the shirt, under a hoodie. stee was right. It’s not like anybody at the Wiltern would have any idea I was wearing my own t-shirt. I’d been feeling ill all day, so I pulled my hair into pigtails, wore my comfiest jeans and said, “Fuck it; we’re going to be in the dark all night.”
So, of course, the first people we run into when we hit the theater are these girls.
Ziiiiiiiip.
When seeing the girls who judge fashion as a serious hobby for the first time in probably over a year, do you:
A) Meet them with a hoodie zipped up to your neck, making you look like you might be hiding a pregnant belly.
B) Meet them wearing your own t-shirt, when they are not wearing the shirts they sold the exact same month.
C) Worry about what you look like because they’re both so cute and why didn’t you at least put on some lip gloss before you went out in public because you’re at the Wiltern. Jesus.
Answer: all of the above.
We had seats for the concert, between a row of parents watching their kids down in general admission and a row of kids who were pissed off that the show was so late they’re were going to miss it because of their curfew. Just when I thought I was done being dorky, the band brought out Debbie Gibson, and I lost all cool singing “Lost In Your Eyes” at full volume. Haven’t heard that song in — what, fifteen years at least? Sure knew every word.
(I wish she had done “Foolish Beat.”)
