Dear Tourette’s…

Posted: April 14, 2011 in Tourettes
Tags: , , , , ,

What’s your beef with belts?

Let’s back up for a sec. This is a tale as old as time itself. Oh, the ridiculous things you’ve made me do to avoid tight things just below or near my navel. (And no, I’m not talking about pantyhose. Those were just for feeling sexy, okay? Let’s just keep that to ourselves.)

I’m talking, of course, about the waist position of my pants and shorts. I’m talking about those times when I was really young, when I couldn’t bring myself to pull anything below my bellybutton. If it had two pipes for my legs, it had to fit just below my ribs. I was the quintessential geriatric juvenile. I was ol’ Gramps Bezuidenthustra, only without the silly puns or dentures. Those who didn’t know better probably thought I wore suspenders. Nope. Just pulled my pants up to my chin. Nothing strange to see here, folks. Move along. Gramps needs a nap.

And then, suddenly, the switch. Smack dab in the middle of puberty, without any rhyme or reason. One day it had to be above the navel, and the next, it had to be below. What was with that, Tourette’s? Why’d you suddenly start demanding I shift the waistline down to mere millimeters above my testicles? Why do I now feel like doing these hula-hoop air-crunches when my pants threaten to pull away from the tip of my ass crack? It’s inexplicable, really. But there you have it.

Which brings us back to belts. It seems I can get away with a lot of things these days, even pants adjusted to fit near my navel, as long as they’re comfortable and loose-fitting (read: something I’d only wear in my room). Small mercies, eh? Yet for some reason, when I put on a belt — ANY belt — you start jabbing me from inside. I imagine you perched on my bladder in a rickety camping chair, grinning maniacally while leaning back and prodding me with a long, sharpened stick. Or maybe burning me with a magnifying glass like you’re an obnoxious eight year old and I’m an ant. Except there’s no sun in there.* So scratch that thought. We’ll stick with the camping chair bit.

Either way, you’re an ass. I can’t wear a belt, sit down, and expect to remain relaxed. Impossible. And the older I get, the more I recognize the importance and utility of said belts. So what’s a guy to do, huh, Tourette’s?

Help me out here and explain the issue to me. Why do you hate belts? If you just tell me, maybe I can work something out. Strike a deal. Negotiate. Belts are reasonable people, you know. Except they aren’t people. Let’s not get bogged down by the details. Point is, you scratch my back, I scratch yours.

Actually, I think I’m already scratching your back. Pretty much all the time, too.


Buckle-tighteningly yours,

*Not entirely true. There is sun in there, but it’s in my rectum. We all know the sun shines out my ass.

  1. Kablammy says:

    Oh. My. God. That was the fucking funniest piece I’ve read in a long time. A friend who cruises “Tourettes Blogs” (“Tourettes Blogs”? Who knew?) sent me a link to this page. I can’t even begin to tell you how much I identify with this post! Having had tourettes all my life (and now with a daughter who has it) the issue of tight clothing has always been problematic for me. Seams, tags, anything binding around any part of my body. As a woman I’m a bit at a disadvantage these days — tight clothing is what’s in style, and i just can’t do it. And don’t EVEN ask me to wear jeans — just hit me over the head with a hammer — it’s quicker, cheaper, and will be less painful.

    Oh well. Thanks. Yeah, I got OCD too, and I kinda think I might add OMGWTFBBQ to my list — it has a certain “je ne sais quoi” about it, dontcha think?

    Thanks for a great laugh.

    • I’m really glad to hear you enjoyed the post! Please tell your friend I said thanks for passing it on.

      As for the clothing dilemma… yeah, it’s a bitch. I’ve just given up on ever finding a shirt that fits properly around my neck. It just won’t ever happen. May as well wish I was a winged donkey living on a shooting star.

      If it makes you feel any better, I think skinny jeans are a total joke, and not the good kind of joke. Maybe you’ve been spared by some benevolent god of tics! (Or maybe not. Either way, good luck! hahaha)

  2. […] it’s chafing my ears. My earphone cords are rubbing up against my throat. And, as usual, this fucking belt is just being its own fucking self. It feels like I’ve suddenly been dropped, naked, in the middle of a war between raging fire […]

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