"Yeah, if you get married in Vegas, you're only married in Vegas." - Phoebe Buffay
Milestones are an important part of any challenge. Up until this last week, I had been bragging to my cohorts about the grace and skill with which I had scaled my own Pillsbury Challenge, much like an oblivious Yodeler sliding up a purple mountainside on The Price Is Right. Heck, I was expecting to zoom in on Day 150 of The No Pants Challenge and prematurely unleash the tethers of my Mission Accomplished Kathleen banner without a hitch or a scrap of denim to be found.
Until Day 149. Tuesday. The Day the Music Died. The Day the Earth Stood Still. The Day A Hush Fell Over a Crowded Room of Monkeys as They Stared at the Silenced Typewriter Keys Beneath Them. The Day a Hyphenated-Monstrosity Reared its Head out of the Foamy Wake of Rushed Plot Points.
Pillsbury-Howell. In case you haven‘t noticed, I didn’t see that one coming. At all.
Morning. Day 150. After a night of fitful sleep, I rolled out of bed. As the door to my closet creaked open, a vast abyss of betrayal lay before me as I recalled the previous night's events. How well did I really know Juicy Couture Fruity Print Skirt? Had the bee on my Kate Spade cardigan always scowled at me that way? Even dearest, dearest Penelope Mary Jane was but a stranger to me now.
When the bottom fell out, it felt as though the Pillsbury Clothing Market had crashed under the swift, sparkly flash of a single piece of jewelry. Standing in my closet was like walking into the lobby of Lehman Brothers on the day after. Like swimming in an ocean of first edition beanies babies forty-five minutes after beanie babies became totally totally lame.
Afraid my vengeful pants-filled fury would disappoint the tens of people who care about the No Pants Challenge, I did the only rational thing I could think of. I grabbed the drabbest, oldest dress that I had and wore it. I would teach my Pillsbury clothes a lesson they would never forget. If they had thought I couldn’t live without them, well then they had better think again before they pull some sweepsweekesque stunt like THAT again.
But as the day wore on, and I tugged and scratched at the faded collar of my dress, I began to consider something. I thought about how Emma Pillsbury is the most loyal and honest of fashion heroes. How even though husbands may come and go (but the Chanel slingback is forever! - Karen Walker), that Emma Pillsbury would never compromise who she is and what she wears.
Don’t get me wrong. Progress can be great. Have you noticed how paper clips are migrating into asymmetrical positions on her desk, and pencils are strewn haphazardly in her coffee mug?
And yet sometimes, keeping some things about yourself just the way they are can be quite lovely. Knowing that I can turn on my TV every Tuesday and be welcomed by the same classic, fabulous fashion of one Emma Pillsbury is a comfort. Sure, she may get hitched on a whim. But goodness, she’d never do anything REALLY rash. Like jeggings-rash.
For those of you content with the outcome of Tuesday night’s episode, I salute you, your optimism, and your dedication to The Stamos. For those of you still huddled in the panic room in your basement with a bucket full of crustless PB&J's, you have my deepest of sympathies. I can only offer you the consolation that whatever day of the No Schuester Challenge our beloved Ms. Pillsbury-Howell is on, that there is an end in sight. Until then, let us not drown ourselves in sorrows but clad ourselves in cardigans. Lift ourselves up with PMJs. Oh, and invest in the market! God knows no one else is crazy enough to bail us out.
P.S. I have this theory that Emma’s brooches are now sending secret subliminal messages to Will. Any guesses as to what these mean? Heee.