Too particular

I admit it: I’m becoming too particular. I’m turning myself into a stereotype. What was the breaking point moment of my realization? Picture, if you will:

I’m at the mall after work shopping for “cute but supportive” shoes. (That word "supportive" matched with shoes = health-nerd clue #1.) There will be no Sex and the City-worthy foot fashion to be found in my closet. I’m sipping a freshly juiced parsley-cucumber-apple-carrot-ginger juice. For real. My eyes are bloodshot from the effects of a single glass of wine the night before throwing off the highly alkaline ph I had built up from a two-week raw-food cleanse.

Through heavy eyes, I squint down at my Danskos. Nothing less sexy than those shoes, I think. Until I slip them off and notice the putty-colored lift in the left heel. That’ll top ‘er. I also see that I’ve spent the day wearing a pair of black pants that were hemmed too high and don’t quite cover my ankles. Like the organic cherry on top of this vegan-nerd-sundae, my plastic Q-link--which protects me from the dangerous Electro-Magnetic Rays that surround us and which I wear attached to a chain around my neck--dangles out of its hiding spot under my sweater and into plain site. As if to greet everyone with a big “Hello, yes, I’m paranoid of even the things I can’t see or feel.”

Also, my hair was a little greasy because I felt too tired that morning to wash it properly on account of the wild night of imbibing one glass of wine.

Yeah...arch-support shoes, high-water pants, an inability to handle small quantities of alcohol, and the ultimate accessory of paranoia. In that moment, I felt like a super hot catch. It’s hard to even make fun of myself at this point. I would need someplace to go to be able heighten the joke—but I’ve already heightened it with my actual choices. I AM the joke.