Me: frantically hauling clothes out
of the closet, in an attempt to find a dress that fits my stress-laden
ever-expanding “mortal coil,” to wear to a wedding we are leaving for, in an
hour;
And
Further frantically raking through existing
clothes to find a suitable sweater to wear on top of aforementioned fancy dress
(which is never long-sleeved, or even any-sleeved because fashion designers)
because is it the end of Apriluary, and the temp is a frigid 44 degrees in the
sunlight, except there isn’t any sunlight because Pittsburgh.
Husband: flopping down on the bed,
wearing his jeans and sweatshirt.
Me, turning to husband in a fury: “Why
are you just lying there like that? We’re leaving in less than an hour!”
Husband:
“I’m here to watch the floor show.”
And
“What about that piece of fabric you bought
for our trip to Israel? You could wear
that draped over your shoulders.”
Me, with contempt, “I’m not wearing
a piece of fabric. I’m wearing sleeves.”
Having found my “little black dress,” I wrathfully
depart the bedroom to look for a safety pin.
Why? Again, because fashion
designers. People who make little black
dresses think that cleavage is a desirable thing, and by the time I get the
size that fits my petite and yet carb-influenced rotundity, the amount of
frontage revealed is ridiculous. Nobody
wants to see my wrinkled chest skin.
Banging on Younger Daughter’s door, I shout: “Emergency!”
She opens the door, wide-eyed. “I
need a safety pin!” She used to have quite a stash of them, for the donning of her
toga for Latin Club. But no more. I march off to find one in the kitchen junk
drawer and apply it to the appropriate spot on my dress. Finally, my mortal coil is ready for the event.
My husband took five minutes to get dressed.
1 comment:
Finding just the thing to wear for special occasions is THE WORST. And one almost needs a special occasion dress for each season to boot. With matching footwear, jewelry and wrap/sweater.
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