Ways Edie is like George Costanza:
lives with her parents
doesn't have a job
very little hair
*I say I'm projecting because I dress Edie as I want to dress, which is also in a sweatsuit. I'm thinking of becoming a fashion blogger** actually, but, like, one for the rest of us. I'll do tutorials like, "Sock Bun too hard? I thought so too. Try the Unimaginative Ponytail. I'll show you how".
**I am pathologically underdressed, which is never a huge problem in that I don't really care. I usually sort of notice, like in a passing, uninterested most people at this New Year's gathering seem to be dressed for a party kind of way, but, not really. Until . . . James and I were headed to a party in at this beer garden in the Meat Packing District. I had bowed to pressure and was wearing my fanciest sparkly t-shirt*** and ballet flats with my jeans. We stepped over a line from what, the West Village (?) into the Meat Packing District, and BAM, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I was a t-shirt SURROUNDED by tiny black dresses. And not just little black dresses, tiny black dresses. Like the kind you see in club scenes on TV. Shows like CSI where someone has been murdered but no one heard the gunshot over the din of the pumping beats. Strappy open backed dresses and towering heels and I'm two feet shorter than everyone and in a t-shirt. It was the first time I ever felt really conspicuous in New York City****.
***This is true. It's a grey t-shirt with sparkly accents. I wear it for special occasions.
****Have I told this story before? If so, don't tell me. I'll just feel embarrassed.