The ugly pants burn! An old resolution is torched and a new 2012 personal style makeover begins

…Continued from Previous Post – ‘Burning the ugly pants’ personal style makeover comes to Blank Canvas Living

“I’m wearing longjohns underneath in case the tape quits, but I can’t walk around the office in them.”

“What do you do down there?” she asks.

“Roll and fold epic seismic printouts.”

“Sounds like a lovely pattern for a skirt – you have tape and scissors down there don’t you?”

The elevator doors open, but I can’t move. She’s right. So right my whole body tingles and my eyes start to water. I’ve made clothes before, even staged fashion shows – of course I can do this! The skirt is effortlessly designing itself in my brain. Ideation is a sparkling high I’ve spent too long trying to teach myself to live without. Somehow I let the world convince me that creation and imagination was valuable only when channeled for profit or praise. But this strange woman is speaking my truth, my own deep guttural soul truth, and the sky blue lettering on the glass doors at the end of the hall puts it into words.

Blank Canvas Living

“Are you coming?” she asks, and reaches to take the package with the same name.

“Anywhere you want me to go,” I answer quietly.

Her glowing pink smile flashes with understanding. “Wait by the stairs; I’ll be right back.” She disappears behind the frosted glass.

Up on the roof we stand side by side watching the ugly pants burn. She leans on the child’s red plastic snow shovel (handle wrapped in toilet paper and soaked in lighter fluid) that she’d used to light the hideous grey legs on fire.

“What else do you have down there?” I ask.

“How about I show you sometime.”

“I’d love that,” I say, keeping my eyes on the smoldering rags as my heart begins to thrill. “Thank you.”

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‘Burning the ugly pants’ personal style makeover comes to Blank Canvas Living

“You ever heard of Blank Canvas Living?” Our receptionist hands me the errant package, labeled with our company’s address, but wrong name and floor.”

“They just moved into the penthouse, I’ll run it up.” I head straight for the elevator bay, with the oddly shaped, brown paper wrapped escape tucked under my arm.

The lift doors slide open and I forget all about the package, my waiting desk, everything fades in the presence of the woman already on board. She is tall, magnificently ancient, with a long white braid and a mad flash of neon fuchsia lipstick – a lesser gloss would never balance the curious intensity of the eyes above. I take my spot in the opposite corner, but let my finger drop when I notice the 10th floor button has already been pushed.

The doors close and I am suddenly, acutely aware of my own appearance – a total systems fail. I feel the woman’s eyes judging me, even though I keep my gaze fixed on the carpeting, and on her exquisitely designed sneakers that I am suddenly, and acutely, wanting for myself.

“You know,” says the woman, “every second you wear those pants you mock God.”

I look up mortified, and find her smile glowing brighter. “That might be a bit extreme,” I say.

“You’re holding your crotch together with packing tape. Do you have another definition of extreme when it comes to fashion sacrilege?”

“I know they’re grim, ok fine. But the receptionist gave them to me ages ago and I’m not really trying to impress anyone down there <<pointing to mystical 6th floor below>>. But, in my defense, I did write an epic makeover serial on my older blog called ‘burning the ugly pants’ and these were them.”

The woman crosses her arms and stamps a sneakered toe. “Writing isn’t worth shit if you don’t live it. You and I are going up to the roof right now and we’re going to burn those abominations you call pants. Come on girl, it’s time to stop screwing around.”

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