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Man, I used to love Christmas. I thought nothing could beat a fat dude with a ZZ Top beard bearing both prezzies and excuses to buzzsaw my way through cookies for two straight months. Plus, illuminating the wee apartment with 250 strands of lights (100 individual bulbs per strand for a grand total of 25,000 imported Italian twinkle lights — Griswold-style) has long been one of my greatest joys. And so until last fall, Christmas typically started directly after the Labor Day ceremonial deflation of the yellow pool floatie and Don, the Leaky Blow-up Flamingo.

But Christmas preparations are gonna have to wait again this year because my newest holiday obsession — Oktoberfest — has taken over.

Let me list the things to love about Oktoberfest (regardless of where you celebrate it): handcrafted beer steins filled with beer, pretzel necklaces dangling near your beer, sauerkraut on a weinerschnitzel washed down with beer, and beer.

I’ve been training for this weekend for a solid year and while I didn’t look super svelte in my swimsuit this summer, I know the Body By 5 Barrel (Pale Ale) Diet will give me the strength I need to endure two and half days of drinking without yakking or crying for my mother. Physically, I’m ready. Mentally, I’m ready.

Guess what’s not ready? My damn outfit. I may not kowtow to the typical mid-winter worry of wedging a pumpkin pie-infused bum into a skinny sequin dress for New Year’s Eve but I definitely give a scheisse about what to wear to Oktoberfest. This fraulein has gotta look frau-fine.

I know what you’re thinking: if the goal here is to be facedown on a picnic table with beer dribbling out my stein and soaking into my lap by noon, what does it matter what I’m wearing?

It freakin’ matters.

Some folks think because they have girl parts in their swimsuit areas this means wearing a dirndl. (You know, what the St. Pauli girl wears.) While I have the mugs to hold it up, I didn’t see the point in wearing a big ole skirt, a bodice, a blouse, and an apron for drinking.

Alas, now I’m sitting here in the lederhosen I purchased online after last year’s Oktoberfest (but left in the box and didn’t try on until about fifteen minutes ago because I am either very dumb or completely adventurous.) And I’m wishing to Gott I had an apron.

This damn flap in the front (aka the “dental tray”) that flips up over the button fly of your standard-issue lederhosen is the problem. Sure, there are adorable lime green deer prancing around on it, but you and I both know it ain’t gonna distract from the way it pooches out as if I’m smuggling a weinerschnitzel.

Panicked, I began my online search for a dirndl two days before leaving. All within reach look slutty and expensive. A slutty, expensive dirndl shall not be mine this year. I’ll just have to find a way to put the “ho” in lederhosen.

It’ll be fine. Soon I’ll be drunk and dressed in the kneesocks and leather embroidered leisure-breeches of the common man and I can focus on what’s important: dribbling beer out of my stein and into my lap while facedown on a picnic table.

Ed. note: After writing this, Fritz gave in and bought a dirndl. She won’t stop giggling and rubbing her hands together excitedly.

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