This is as another entry in the vein of "I'm self-obsessed and awful" and should probably be tagged with "narcissism". (Side note: I just recalled I have "self-examination" and "MEMEME" tags already so apparently I've already got narcissism covered but hey, more tags about ME is more, right?).
I am a hormonal mess. An inconsistent therefore unpredictable baggage. My cycle is all effed up from the effects of taking time off oral contraceptives then starting a new one just before I left the UK for a month, during which time I completely effed up my general body clock. The net result is that I've been busy justifying my complete bitchiness on the basis that IT'S NOT MY FAULT I HAVE NO CONTROL OVER THE HORMONES, followed by WAIT? DID YOU JUST SAY I HAVE PMS? THAT MAY BE TRUE BUT PREPARE TO DIE.
Poor old P. But don't feel too sorry for him; he's getting a cold and has been pretty mood swingy himself over the past two days. He snapped at me once so I refused to speak to him the rest of the night. Justified? I think so. HYMPH.
Anyway, the point of this is not to point out my irrationality or discuss the finer detail of my menstrual cycle (that word is yick. Whenever I say 'menstrual cycle' which I promise is infrequently I think 'minstral cycle' which is weird or 'minestrone cycle' which makes it SO MUCH WORSE). The point is to tell you about what made me feel immensely better.
After a particularly awful start to the morning involving a cross husband, computer problems, rain and falling temperatures, I got in the lift at work. Normally this is the moment where I accept that I will actually have to work today and that no amount of fantasising will change that fact (half hour walk to work usually spent constructing elaborate fantasies about alternative scenarios for the day, my life, whatever). But when I got in the lift this morning, my mood changed entirely due to a complete vision of a man.
|VIA GOSSIP GIRL. OF COURSE CHUCK BASS WAS THE FIRST GOOGLE IMAGE RESULT FOR "A DAPPER FELLOW". SADLY, HE WAS NOT CLOSELY FOLLOWED BY A YOUNG JEREMY IRONS.|
He was wearing a beautifully tailored suit in a dark blue with a subtle pin stripe. His shirt was plain, but he'd added a purple tie which sounds vile but actually complemented the suit colour. He had a hot pink pocket square that was perfectly pouffed out of his breast pocket. His hair was dark, possibly black (which colour very possibly came out of a bottle). He had it in a wet look teddyboy-style pouf, each strand perfectly in place and coming to an even line on the nape of his neck; definitely not too long and scraggly. The whole ensemble sounds like some kind of 70s pimp or London early-90s playboy styling now that I've typed it out, but the elements did combine beautifully and he appeared a very well dressed man.
But what really got me interested and turned my mood around was the fact that his lower lip was pierced exactly in the centre and adorned with a hoop and ball.
Don't get me wrong, I've never been a facial piercing fetishist. I generally find male jewellery unattractive and there was nothing hot or come hither-y to me about this man's lip ring. It was just a perfectly unexpected topping to what was clearly a carefully thought through and composed dress style that made me grin from ear to ear.
Funny what makes you smile, no?