I am not a girl of God, but LOOOORD do I need to confess.
I was raised Catholic, but over the years I’ve shed most of my religious traditions and beliefs. I’ve lost all but one: GUILT.
I’ve always carried the heavy burden of guilt.
Do not lie. Do not cheat. Do not put yourself first.
I even took the Golden Rule up a notch (to Platinum): Treat people the way THEY want to be treated, not the way YOU want to be treated. Let’s call that GUILT, gilded.
Guilt is the ghost that haunts me. Guilt stalks me, striking a whip at my feet to stay aware and woke. Guilt serves me, too—reminding me to walk the walk, always do the right thing.
I always aim to do the right thing—please remember that.
Should I tell you?
I’ve really done it this time. The level of angst and guilt I am feeling is eating at me, it burns. I’ve hit rock bottom.
I confess here today, and I ask for your forgiveness.
I bought Ivanka Trump pants.
Please! Please don’t go!
I know. I know what I’ve done!
I know it’s bad. Please just hear me out, and then you can go if you feel that’s best. I won’t guilt you to stay.
I realize how bad this all sounds. I’m a fraud, a liberal reject, I get it. And honestly, if you were telling this to me? I’d be devastated, too.
I’ll start from the beginning.
Oh my God! SATAN IS THAT YOU?! (NO- I made this decision on my own…)
Good white pants are hard to find. I know there are thousands to choose from, perhaps millions. All cuts, all sizes, all shades of white. (You’d be surprised at how many shades of white there are to choose from in this country.)
I’d been looking for about two years. I’d try on every brand and size, with no luck. I’d seen the Ivanka whites, but simply poo-pooed the notion of buying her wares. (I’d even mix up the sizes, and move her label to the sale rack.)
I became tired—restless for a form-fitting pair of white cropped pants, that did not highlight my imperfections. (The irony.)
After fifty or sixty trips to Marshalls, I weakened. I tired of cheap material, exposed white pockets framing my hips and ass, a muffin top that spilled into next Tuesday. I was disgusted.
Then it happened: the meteorologist announced that an unusually warm front was due to arrive. Spring was coming early. I was seduced by the prospect of the sunshine, cropped pants, and espadrilles. It was a recipe for disaster, and a call to go shopping.
As I brushed my hands along the carousel of the new spring arrivals, I sensed a cropped-pant victory was near. I got a cart to hold my selection, I couldn’t carry it all.
The huge heap of freshly tagged clothes was beyond anything the changing room lady had ever previously encountered. White, upon white, upon white. (That was a lot of white, even for this suburban town.) I hid one pair of Ivanka whites (I-white for short) in the middle.
The attendant had to write the number with a sharpie on a separate square of paper. (Their numbers only went up to 16. I meant business.)
Pair after pair were one and the same: white, and not good. I was parched. Fatigued. The lights began to dim. Just a few more to go. Too tight. Too long. Too thin. Too ugly.
Then. Oh, my sweet Jesus. TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE.
My ass—it looked so good! My muffin top—contained. My underwear—camouflaged, by silky white. My thighs—had a gap.
I looked down to see who had provided this MIRACLE. And they were…Ivanka whites.
It was like playing the real life version of ‘Would You Rather.’ I had to choose: between my principles and the perfect pair of white pants.
Yes. I see it. I hear it. But—you don’t know what it’s like! The struggle is real! I had to make this decision for me, not for the rest of the country. So hear me out.
Love thy neighbor, right?
I’m supposed to forgive and play nice with my extreme right-wing counterparts, MY ‘FRIENDS.’ Love them anyway. Pretend we see eye-to-eye. Forgive. Forget. Turn a blind eye to ignorance—BUT NOT BUY THE IVANKA WHITES THAT FIT LIKE A MOTHER FLUBBIN’ GLOVE?
Uh-uh. Nope. El Wrongo!
Father, I have sinned. If you can forgive them for Trump, you can forgive me for this. And if not…those white pants will look great with my tan (from burning in hell).
And if I should live to survive this poor moral choice in pants? I promise to find a matching jacket, to complete my white pantsuit for the next election. Lord knows I’ll need it.
. . . . .
I lied. Well, the story is true (shamefully), but I’m not ‘That’s all.’ I used poetic license, hyperbolizing for effect. I spent days considering this post, tortured with guilt.
I would love to skip down the street, wagging my tailored, white-silk-draped butt around town, looking fabulous—but morality took over. I didn’t feel good inside—so looking good outside ceased to matter.
Cutting the tags– not enough.
Quoting Van Jones– helped a little.
Wine– made it worse.
Turns out that these Ivanka whites revealed my imperfections, just like all the others.
As penance: my shopping quest begins again. And likely a bit of shaming, as a result of this post.
As for my white wardrobe and my political conflicts? I’ll lean on my religion for help.
I’ve called in the Pope.