Sequined argyle: Hip or hypocritical?

I am going to the Lady Gaga concert in Boston on Tuesday. Fame Monster, here I come. You may be thinking, "Oh my God! What are you going to wear?" Survey says that this is the most popular thing for a person to ask me after I've delivered this news.

It is beyond me why the first question is never, "Oh my God! Why did you waste your money?" Let's be real. The live version of "Paparazzi" will be half as good -- no, let's go with twice as bad -- as the studio version. Will she or won't she lip sync? This is the most pressing musical choice Gaga faces.

I would be stupid to go see Gaga expecting a musical showcase. Half of her lyrics (and even her name) are complete jibberish. Instead, I am expecting a more circus-like performance, in which -- let's be honest -- motley's the only wear. Clearly, the main point of this outing is to look and act like a fool. Or, at the very least, to witness others' -- namely, Gaga's -- follies. What will she do next? What will she wear? Will she be a man or a woman? It's almost Shakespearean.

Costume and over-indulgence will abound and I, for one, will enjoy my view. I can't brag about a fabulous costume or outfit, but I do have a shirt selected that will be subtly entertaining. It is black, with black and silver sequins on it, in an argyle pattern. Yep, sequined argyle: Preppy school girl meets night club. Pretty sure that's what the Scots had in mind.

Wishing on a hug

Last summer, I publicly declared that I require three hugs per day. I suppose this proclamation came about upon recognizing the void left in my life after years of living in such close quarters with my friends that I felt comfortable slapping their asses to congratulate them -- or just to say hi, and waking them up by jumping on them in bed (sorry, but it was time for brunch).

That summer was a glorious one, full of hugs and squeezes of all styles and sizes. Most days, I surpassed my daily goal of three and floated, wide-eyed, in my hug-haven. This daily quota of three hugs quickly solidified as a key constituent in my happiness. I also came to the conclusion that I must have been coddled too much as a child.*

People in my office, like those in offices all around the world, have things at their desk to attract visitors. One co-worker has a large bowl of trail mix on her desk, which means that I am at her desk around six times per day. Seven when there are M&Ms in it. We have become friends.

What is my contribution to the workplace? Tissues. I have a square box of tissues that reads on one side, "I'm there when you need to pick up icky things." Another side reads, "I'm there when you run out of toilet paper." This is how I bribe people to visit me.

Today, the day before Thanksgiving, and a four-day break from the office, wishes of a happy holiday were frequent, and people skipped around the office in anticipation of family and pie. Chatter, laughter, and desk visitors were above average. A co-worker came to my desk at the end of the day. As I noticed her presence at my side, I turned in my mobile chair to face her. She reached out an arm, and I excitedly rose out of my chair, expecting my first-ever workplace hug. As I stood up, she turned to me, startled, and I fell back into my chair.

As it turned out, she just needed to pick up something icky. And now I am the office creeper.
_______________________________________________
*My mother has recently confirmed this.