I have been encountering more dandies of late. A dandy is a man who places importance on refinement, on leisure, and his appearance, often dressing quite flamboyantly. Historically the term came from a group of English aristocrats, but it has come to signify men who dress in a highly fashionable and particular manner.

When I think of dandies I think of the men walking along the seaside for a rendezvous (at the peak of the season, the Mediterranean, this time of year, it’s so fashionable!).

I went to look at a truck my daughter wants to buy. It was at a dealer in a small town by the coast. A bunch of salesmen looked like I expect of car salesmen in a small town at the coast. Somewhat too large khakis. Black sneakers. Windbreakers. I asked for the fellow I had been communicating with online. He comes out and does not look like the other salesmen. He had on shiny, square-toed, longish formal shoes. His trousers were trousers. His hair was coifed. And the shirt… It had hidden plackets on the front and over the cuffs. The fabric under the plackets was solid while the shirt was striped. It was monogrammed on the pocket. He wore tres fashionable, wire-rimmed glasses. He was a thorough dandy. He certainly stood out among the other schlubs at the car lot. He flirted with me the whole time I was there. After, I couldn’t decide if the others would admire him for getting a sale by being a flirting dandy, or if they would mock him. Maybe both? It didn’t work though; we didn’t buy the truck.

In court, the DAs in my county are very often dandies. It seems to be a thing with them to wear their conservative suit with a pair of very loudly colored socks, a bow-tie, and suspenders. The socks and suspenders are kept mostly hidden, but peek out when they sit or remove their jackets. Matching the bow-ties to the socks seems to be a thing. Hey, Judge. We are serious and have our own identities. Plus it is 1885.

I saw dozens of people walking toward the football game last weekend. Most of them were dressed for a cool, fall day. Yet one fellow stood out. He wore a pin-striped suit, a bowler hat, a bow-tie, shiny dress shoes, and carried a walking stick.

Oh, brother. Seriously? I guess if car salesmen can do it, so can football fans.


I shave my legs. I started when I was young and I prefer the feeling of the skin without hair. I got used to it. I can’t get un-used to it. I tried. It didn’t work.

What’s the point of this, you ask? Why are you sharing your leg-shaving hygiene habits? Why should I care? Well, it’s because it is related to this other issue.

If I don’t shave my legs for a bit and the hairs start growing, they stick out and catch on my socks or tights or nylons or whatever is close to the skin around my ankles. It can get kind of painful and then reminds me to shave those hairs off again. I’m kind of lazy about this shaving business, so it takes these hairs being pulled and hurting for me to realize and shave them.

Yesterday was cold and blustery. Leaves were swirling. Rain would pelt, then stop, then pelt again. It was quite autumnal. I needed to dress up a bit for work, so what could I wear that wouldn’t leave me freezing and pathetic in autumnal weather? Boots! I chose boots. Boots and stretch pants, the go-to put under fancier things to keep one warm when one must dress up for work, but one doesn’t want to be a drowned and freezing rat.

I put on the stretch pants. I put on the socks. I put on the boots. These particular boots zip up the back. All layered up and ready to go.

Yet by mid-afternoon it was quite apparent that something wasn’t right. My left ankle was throbbing. Something in the boot felt like it was stabbing me. It really hurt. I am the princess and the pea after all, so I shouldn’t have been surprised when I was able to finally open the boot and roll down the sock and determine that I had not pulled up the stretch pants tight enough so there was a wrinkly lump under the sock. This had pulled the unshaven hairs. Covered with the tight wool socks and then encased in a boot was too much. My poor leg was all red and sore. No wonder it hurt.

I pulled the pants tight so the fabric lay flat, covered with sock and boot again, and went on my way. It didn’t help much because those long hairs were jacked up and so was my skin.

Now today, freshly shorn of ankle hairs and wearing a single layer of tights under the boots because the weather remains pretty awful, there is more room in there. Yet the skin is still upset with me. It keeps sending me little reminders that it hurts. First you didn’t shave these hairs, then you covered them with wrinkly things, then you encased them in fabrics and leathers. You need to pay, you bad word!

I’m paying. My ankle hurts. All because I’m too lazy to regularly remove those hairs.



I am a potato.

One of the most unexpected, and I admit, to me, dismaying aspects of aging has been turning into a potato. Becoming a starch for all intents and purposes has caused me some chagrin. Lumpy. Thick. Sticks to the sides of bowls and pans. That’s me.

I wonder if I cause others’ blood sugar to spike. Do I create a high glycemic load? Am I a staple crop? A tuber covered in eyes?

I’m not sure.

Mainly I’m just lumpy.