On flossing, and belts, and the overuse of commas by lapsed English majors.

Some snippets.

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I think that I need to preface this thought with a disclaimer: I floss regularly. My dentist takes note of this and makes me feel all warm and fuzzy for doing something that people should just do and I’m regularly appalled by others’ lack of flossing (forgetting sometimes is okay; forgetting for a few years is not) but anyway, my point is: I floss. It’s not a once-a-month kind of deal.
But. Here’s the thing. Each time I do, I unspool a ridiculous amount to use. Like, criminally wasteful. Why, why why can I never remember how much I realistically need? It’s not like I didn’t floss my teeth twenty-four frickin’ hours ago while thinking Hey! Why the hell did I just take so much floss? I did not grow extra rows of teeth in the interim, or participate in some sort of corn-on-the-cob eating contest, or sustain an injury to my hippocampus resulting in the inability to form new memories. I shouldn’t have to Post-it this to my bathroom mirror, but I just might.
It doesn’t help that a standard container of floss contains something like 7 miles of the stuff. I’m not going through a new pack each week or anything. So I’ve grown comfortable in my floss-wasting ways. If I switched to some fancy-pants expensive brand (does that even exist?) would I be more aware of how much I used? Probably not.

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I’ve recently come into quite a few belts. I use the phrase “come into” intentionally. Like someone who has “come into” money, it was unexpected and has changed my life.

At the end of this summer, I owned two proper belts: one was brown, the other black. I had a couple of those decorative, came-with-a-tunic-shirt type things, but those could really only be worn with the blouse from whence they came. I can’t pull off the belted-shirt look, though Lord knows I try.
But then I got a job with a “business casual” dress code, which meant purchasing “business casual” attire. By no means have I re-wardrobed myself, but I did use this as an excuse to do a little upgrading. But. Here’s the thing. Every. single. thing I’ve bought since comes with a damn belt. Pants. Dresses. Shirts. Belts. Belts. Belts. And sometimes, not just one! A three-pack of belts? Sure! Why the hell not?
I’ll tell you why not: my closet looks like a goddamned belt store.
In August, life was simple. To work, I wore my black belt. To everywhere else, I wore my brown one. Now, when I dress myself in the morning, I end up rifling through some great hanging curtain of leather and leather-ish materials in order to find something to keep my belt loops in work.

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If I ever invite you to my home for dinner, here’s a fun game you can play during the car ride over. It’s called Soup or Pasta? and, depending on the number of folks in your carpool and their collective knowledge of statistics, there’s always a winner.

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