Thursday, March 17, 2011

Being Blue.

So, all along I thought I was your random run-of-the-mill white girl.  Big lips.  Blue eyes.  Gloriously straight (thanks to scrummy hairdresser) dark hair.

Sometimes acne, sometimes wrinkles.  Sometimes puffy eyes, sometimes not.  Normal.  Like all the other people I see walking around.

That is, until I learnt the truth about my appearance.  You see, I've always considered most (excluding change room) mirrors to be fairly (but not entirely given their 2-deminsioal reflection) accurate.  I thought what I saw was pretty damn close to what others saw.

And then.  I stumbled across the gospel of The Pant.  Who I really am.  In technicolour: I saw a picture of myself and realised that, for many years, I have been prancing around the show with an air of arrogance that is so severely ill-befitting, it's embarrassing.  I should, after learning the reality of my aesthetic appeal (or lack thereof), do the unsuspecting public at large a massive service and just stay away from the outside world.

My mirror's been lying.  And only The Daughter is honest enough to tell the truth.

You see, actually, I'm blue.  So I've been lying on all those governmental forms for all these years (but do they even care to offer us blue people a box to tick.  Is my blueness a disability?)  But I'm not just blue.  I am also purple.  In that I have purple ears.  Which are larger than my head.  One of which sticks out of my eye.  Sometimes it can get a little irritating.  But most of the time, I'm quite comfortable mixing my senses.

Despite spending exorbitant amounts on fashion, it appears that I am completely incapable of putting together a decent outfit.  No, instead I like to wear vibrant, yet poorly-stitched patchwork dresses.  In the shape of a sack.  To compliment my very round body.

Did I mention that I have no arms and legs?  Apparently I float around our home, cooking supper, picking up partially worn items of The Daughter's clothing.  Kind of like a large, colourful balloon.  Without a string to hold me down.

But at least I have a big heart.  Sure, it has an odd shape.  And it is on the outside of my body (exhilirating content for an episode of Grey's Anatomy).  But it's what I do with that big heart that really counts, is it not?

That's me.  The Pant.  In all my mis-matched, ill-proportioned, limbless glory.  And I wonder why I'm single.

In other news:  There's an impostor on the blogosphere.  A lady who claims to be my gran (typos from beyond???).  If she wasn't so damn hilarious, I'd definitely interpol her ass.  Go have a read of Granny Pants.  She's all kinds of granny rad.