I'm a sweater. I do not mean figuratively; literally, I am a sweater. I swear, I sweat most than 98% of the world's population. Light pastel pretty frilly shirts? Forget it, unless you want to see two perfectly placed circles of sweat within ten minutes. However, as I have gotten older, I have take the "eff it" approach to my sweat blessing. Two things motivate me in this motivation 1) sweating means I am alive and I kind of am a fan of being alive. It's pretty legit and pays the bills 2) I'm much more confident in my skin than I was when I was 21 years old. I have no one to impress, but myself. And I'm already on "team monica" :) Game over. I think when God was creating me in my mother's blessed womb, he was "this close" to making me a boy. Then, he decided at the last minute to make me one amazing strong woman. So, a bit of the testosterone is still in me from this split second decision.
Last night, I was rocking and sweating out hardcore to Jason Boland and the Stragglers at my favorite local bar in MHK (Longhorns). During this extreme loss of water weight, I was baffled by two things: 1) how many girls can be in a sweaty country bar adn have their hair DOWN! Geesh. That was the first thing I did when I got to 'Horns. Well, actually it was the second thing. The first thing was order 2 Keystone pounders to double fist. I'm a rebel, what can I say. It's impressive. Anyways, and the second thing 2) all the DAMN posers. Seriously.
Whoever decided that daisy duke shorts and designer cowboy boots was considered red dirt country, should be shot between the eyes. Bullet between the ears, as my Daddy would say. And, of course, these girls are blond (sorry, I was just observing). I guarantee those bimbos did not know ONE word to ANY of Jason Bolands songs. I am always baffled by these people. I stand there, while I'm sweating out previously mentioned pounders, staring. And probably giving them the stank eye. I'll bet that those idiots "My Music" list on facebook lists Rascal Flatts, Julianne Huff, Nickelback, Brad Paisley, Kenny Chesney, and other pop country idiots as their favorites. Ugh.
Posers. Again. Posers. The girls who turn their nose up to cow manure and bugs, but yet squeal at the idea of a cowboy in boots and jeans. So long as the cowboy isn't "too cowboy" in starched jeans and chews. Or won't want to spend a day on the farm in a semi bouncing up and down enough to pull a back muscle.
Man oh man. It's a good thing I am past the days of getting blitzed and being terribly obnoxious, because I'd easily end up verbally abusing some of those girls. Or at least quizzing them as to their knowledge on red dirt. But, then again, I'd ask which red dirt artist is their favorite and their response would be something like "Dirt can be red? OMG are you serious?!"
Sigh. That reminds me I need to put on my deodorant. Just kidding. Seriously.
