Chronicling the Already Absurd

This is a term my dear husband coined for a certain type of comedy.  It applies to a comic pointing out, say, that Arnold Schwarzenegger was on the President's Council on Fitness or that Elvis Presley was part of Nixon's drug task force.  Or that Arnold is governor of California. Something that is true, yet obviously ridiculous or blatantly ironic.  Just pointing it out isn't a punchline, it's a premise.

Chronicling the Absurd is also what my husband is doing when he photographs my outfits (as opposed to me without my outfit which is a whole different thing) when we come home from an evening out.  The picture above was taken last Saturday when we returned from seeing the Kronos Quartet (who were astonishingly wonderful -- I guess I'm the last to know -- and I plan to elaborate).  

I'm wearing a see-through mesh top over a velvet bra, a wacky homemade scarf with multi-colored applied felt flowers held in place with a vintage pin, chunky platform boots, a super low slung soft gray skirt with big pockets and even bigger buttons, cream colored over-the-knee socks scrunched down, and leg warmers with rosette decorations over brown fishnet tights.  Oh and the bangs are a clip on wig.  Or I guess a "wiglet".  So, too much?

I thought the shot turned out cool despite my tendency for red eye, so I decided to place it here as a record for the future of the sort of weird things I once wore and thought were perfectly reasonable.  

For all you who're thinking it, I do realize that at age 45 I'm nearing (or perhaps past?) the age when I should stop exposing my abdomen to the public or displaying my underwear through a sheer top.  I swear I still feel like I can carry it off.  But what if I'm wrong?  How will I know when it's over?  I'm sure no one will tell me.  I know I wouldn't tell someone.  Ah, well, I'd rather be Betsy Johnson/Bettie Page than Betsy Ross/Betty Crocker.  I've always imagined I'd turn out to be that old lady in the leopard print stretch pants not the one in the Chevy Suburban with the poodle perm and the smock that says "World's Best Grandma!" in calico applique.

But, please, if you ever see me in the latest version of the pastel velour Juicy Couture tracksuit paired with spanking white trainers and a big diamond wedding set, just club me to death right there.