Lessons I Should Have Learned By Now

I love the look of a crisp, white, perfectly tailored button-up shirt.

There is something so impeccably chic and simple about a white top; it goes with pretty much anything you can put on the bottom, from leopard print jeans to a pencil skirt. I have a number of said shirts in my closet because every fashion magazine, book, or blog will tell you it is a staple piece of clothing that every single woman on earth should own and I am a slave to clothing suggestion. I recently purchased an adorable little white, three-quarter length sleeve, lightweight sweater from Old Navy that I have been waiting to wear until the weather finally gets a little cooler, and yesterday seemed like that day. I put on my royal blue skinny pants, adorable Stevie Nicks platforms, and the sweater. I walked downstairs and poured my travel mug of coffee and did a quick polish application to my toes. I walked over to give my husband a kiss goodbye, and he said, “You look adorable.” (Side note: the man notices my clothing next to never, so I was even more pleased with my outfit.) “Wait, what did you get on your shirt?” I looked down, and sure enough, somehow, someway, while I was applying the polish to my toes, I managed to get it on my sweater, too. Someone, please explain to me how this is even fucking possible? Toes. Polish on shirt. How? Then, as I pulled the shirt away from my body to inspect the damage, I spilled coffee all over myself.

This happens every single time I try to wear white. Every. Single. Time. I refuse to purchase white pants because I know the first time I wear them I will start my period two weeks early and end up looking like someone took a machete to my crotch. Every white top I own has been liberally attacked with Tide To Go sticks when I actually manage to make it out of the house before soiling myself. I am too much of a slob to wear white; this is something I need to accept and move on. No more kidding myself after browsing the style section of Pintrest and seeing snappily dressed ladies on the streets of New York and Paris chicly rocking the crisp whites. I am done, I tell you, DONE. At least until the next clearance sale I hit has something that is white and so cheap I can’t afford not to buy it.


My key ring resembles that of a school janitor or building superintendent. I have around 15 keys, and I know what at least 8 of them go to, I swear. I have tried to streamline my key ring in the past, and each time I have realized within a week that I need one of those keys I didn’t recognize and removed, which causes me to have to drive back from wherever I am to retrieve the removed keys and pisses me off to a great extent. That little key with the grey plastic head? That goes to the office’s offsite storage locker that I go to maybe twice a year, but always within a few days of saying, “What the fuck does this key go to? I’m taking it off.” I stare jealously at those people who have their car and house key on a cute little key chain and wonder how it is they manage such simplicity.

photo of Kym's ridiculous amount of keys to her car, house, and the house of almost everyone she knows. There is a red key, leopard print key, Little Mermaid key, among other nonsense
I manage a law firm, not an apartment complex. You would never know it from my key ring.


I don’t like secrets for the same reason I don’t like lying – there is way too much to remember. “Oh what a wicked web” and all that nonsense. I don’t like knowing secrets because I always stick my foot in my mouth when those the secrets are about are in my vicinity. For example, I have two friends that I know have herpes, but not because they have told me. I know because someone else has provided me with the gossip surrounding its contraction, in both case because some assholes had sex with them without disclosing they had it (and yes, both knew they had it). Please understand, I think people make WAY too big of a deal about herpes. It is not the end of the world, but you would think it was based on the way it is often characterized  It’s a freaking STI, for goodness sakes, not a death sentence, and while outbreaks can be painful and potentially unsightly, it is what it is. I have HPV; what-fucking-ever. Again, not the end of the world. I have a HUGE problem, however, with intimate partners not disclosing this information up front and allowing one to make the choice of whether or not to run the risk of contraction.

But getting back on topic. Every time I am around people who I know a secret about, I end up bringing it up in some weird way. Take the aforementioned herpes. Somehow, someway, I always end up talking about something herpes related when these people are around, such as that South Park episode where the parents try to give all the kids chicken pox so they retaliate by having a hooker give their parents herpes.

South Park still of Frida, the hooker character that appears in some episodes. She has red poofy hair with a purple bow and wears a pink bra. She has her arms crossed and is smoking a cigarette.
This is Frida. Image courtesy of

Herpes is not a subject that comes up a lot in my life, but every time the aforementioned friends are around, somehow I manage to bring it up, totally subconsciously, I pinky swear. Then, once it’s out there, I’m kind of screwed, because I can’t clam up all of the sudden because I technically don’t know they have it. If I stop in the middle of the sentence, the gig is up and they will know I know and that someone told their secret. Gracefully getting out of a herpes discussion is difficult, even when you have had more than ample practice, like my dumb ass. So basically, please people, don’t tell me secrets. I make an ass out of myself and feel like shit for potentially hurting people’s feelings. It’s best to just not offer me the secret, because honestly, who can say no when someone offers to tell you one? Not this chick. Gossip is awesome. I mean bad, BAD. Gossip is bad.

How about you? Any lessons you should have learned by know that you can’t get to sink in? Are you brave and careful enough to wear white without looking like a slob by the end of the day?

7 replies on “Lessons I Should Have Learned By Now”

Oh man, I have that problem with white clothes too.  I love them.  They look good on me.  And I CANNOT wear anything white without spilling (I am never caught without a Tide To-Go stick.)  It makes me sad.

The one on my mind now, since I’ve spent the week really sick, is that I should have learned by now to take it easy when I’m sick, but I still have a tendency to force myself to work, on a run, up late with my friends, whatever.  I’m getting better about it, and I do get healthy a lot faster when I do take a break, but I still insist on pushing myself.

I’m weird in that when my stuff is messy, I know exactly where everything is. When I try to clean up the clutter, I can never remember the more logical place that I put stuff. Kiddo’s ballet shoes under the armchair in the living room or randomly on the floor at the top of the stairs? No problem. Move them to her bedroom? Yeah, somebody’s gonna have to dance barefoot because I’m forgetting to bring them with. I need to either learn to write down where I move stuff, or not clean. :)

For the keys, would it help to have two sets? I had a million work keys at my old job, so I kept them on their own keyring and had my apartment keys on a different one.

I am a sucker for white shirts – specifically fresh ironed white cotton, and ribbed tanks. About the only thing I’ve managed to learn about wearing them is stock up on bleach.

But my biggest fail in the learning department has got to be save points. Whether I’m writing or Gimping or playing video games, I never save when I should. And I *always* end up losing something and have to spend three more hours getting back to whatever it was I lost. Argh.

I haven’t quite seemed to accept that I am not an organized person. I should admit it by now, because most of every small attempt I make to organize my crap is forgotten the minute I have ANY OTHER RESPONSIBILITY TO DO.

Such as: I’ve been trying to use binders for my college work for a few years now. Inevitably, whether from the start or by the end, I stop sorting it, and I end up with a pile of papers scattered throughout it.

Every once and a while, though, I get these grand plans to fix it. But really, I’m comfortable in my disorganization. I try to unfuck things every so often, but sometimes, I just need my mental health space more than I need those goddamn clothes to be off the floor.

Probably the biggest lesson I still don’t completely ace: Do Not Care So Much About Strangers’ Opinions On The Internet. I can still go to bed with a stomach ache when a vicious troll set its eyes on me while I know that it’s their problem and them being really kinda sad.

On a whole different level: dust my room. It makes my mother very happy while I’m kinda dust-blind so just don’t care.

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