Help! My Wardrobe is Rebelling

Closet.jpg

A noise woke me from sleep. It didn't come from my dog Doris, who was cuddled and quiet next to me. Nor could I blame my upstairs neighbors for the mysterious sounds. I investigated further, and learned it was coming from my walk-in closet. Fearful an intruder had slipped into my apartment, I palmed my iPhone ready to call the police.

But before taking that step, I bravely opened the door a smidge, and it was then I learned that my wardrobe -- jeans, trousers, summer and winter tops, even shoes -- were grumbling amongst themselves.

 "It's disgusting," I heard the black-and-white patterned blouse carp to the scoop-necked sweater next to her. She was so riled up that her clothes hanger thumped as she spoke.

"I know, I know," responded the sweater. "Everyday, the only thing that ungrateful old lady wears is a t-shirt and leggings. No matter the season, the same obnoxious get-up."

A pair of jeans snickered, "You know why she loves those leggings?"

"Elastic waistband!" jean pals and trousers chorused.

The chest of drawers in the bedroom must have overheard the nearby commotion and the top one spit open with this: "No underwear! Did you guys know she is bare under her beloved t-shirt and leggings? It's obscene."

 I was embarrassed, but in my defense, I always wear an overcoat or vest outside the apartment; no one is aware I'm sans lingerie.

Since the gabby gang couldn't hear me, they continued their bashing. Then, sobbing from a sleeveless blouse. "I feel so used," said the one decorated with the alphabet. "When she got her second tattoo, she wore me or a mate every damn day! She thought she was so cool; an 82-year-old with two tattoos!"

She was right; so enamored by my ink -- one, a heart celebrating my artistic offspring, and the other a seahorse, honoring my accomplishment of finally learning to swim at age 79 -- that I flaunted my biceps when possible.

"I'm pissed," from a long-sleeved sweater swirling its empty arms. "I was there for her in her hour of need, and then, ta-ta-toots."

 A faux silk shirt with cuffs that buttoned upwards sniffed, "Costco. Vacation. Weather got cold."

 I couldn't believe how my clothing had turned on me. I was grateful my shelves of shoes had stayed silent, but then a pair of sandals slurred,"You all are sickening. Just because she hasn't worn you for six months, you're complaining.  What about me? Us?"

"She's right," a pair of leather high-heels, added. "She gave up wearing us years ago! Why has she kept us locked up in the closet? She could have donated us or dropped us off at a thrift shop. At least then, we'd have a chance for a new life. New people to appreciate us."

 Actually, that's a good idea, I thought, and promised myself I'd gather a collection and leave them in a charity box.

While I was congratulating myself for my benevolence, my pair of gym shoes drawled. "Y'all are just jealous because she wears me every day. But ya gotta understand, she's elderly and I keep her safe on her dog walks."

 I really appreciated my Sauconys for standing up for me, and thought the rebellion over. But then I heard a small voice peep out, "Masks. She's fallen in love with masks."

"Right?" posed another. "She must have collected 50! Protecting her wrinkled face while the rest of us hang helpless and abandoned."

A screech came from the bathroom, easily accessible from the walk-in closet. Moisturizer, foundation, concealer, lipstick, mascara, and eye shadow tumbled out of a slid-open drawer.

"What about us?" they sang out as if in a glee club. "She's ignored us all! Just because her face is tucked away under her mask, that's no reason to go around looking so, so..."

"Plain?" one of the club offered.

"Ugly?" said the mascara. "So she wears glasses, she shouldn't leave her eyelashes naked."

There were giggles from the group that derided my lack of underwear under my preferred costume. I ignored them, but then I thought, perhaps a bit of cosmetics could cheer me up? Perhaps the next morning I'd accede to their suggestion.

 But on the whole, while my wardrobe and makeup were just expressing their opinions, until I get the vaccine, I'm sticking to my comfy clothes and masks. My disgruntled duds will just have to be patient and hope that when I'm out and about, I'll drop my daily t-shirt and leggings, and pull old friends off their hangers.

 Then again..

 

 

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First to Leave

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Thank you for your kind invitation to dine. But be forewarned, when the clock ticks one hour, I will rise, hoist backpack to shoulders, push in the chair, and declare: "Sorry, I have to leave; dog, walk."

This is a lie, of course, and some at the table -- if there is a group -- will lower their heads to stifle a laugh. There will be faces turning to look at one another to confirm they've witnessed this routine before, but are kind enough to play along with my ruse.

Doris, my sweet shelter dog, is perfectly content in our apartment where she has the option of two berths -- the double sized in our bedroom, or the daybed in the living room-- both of which are patterned with dozens of squeaky toys and half chewed sham bones.

And while I'm confessing, I should share that Doris doesn't need a walk now, she shuns the outdoor grass, weeds, and grimy gravel used contently by others of her species. Instead, she prefers to circle indoors in our bedroom to go potty on four clean squares of puppy pads.

So why this subterfuge? Why accuse Doris as the culprit in my vanishing act? Didn't the poor darling suffer enough living in a shelter until I rescued her at one-and-a-half?

And why am I always the first to leave? Is it my attention span, unfinished work calling me home, boredom, or need for a nap?

What ever the cause of my abrupt departures, my attention and enthusiasm begin to fade at 45 minutes. By 60, head begins to lower, yawning commences, and companions show signs of concern, compassion, and finally exasperation. "Go, go," they'll urge, eager to rid the spoiler and continue socializing.

Perhaps, as many studies have found, that my limited attention span shifts back to my smartphone and computer addiction. In fact, I was an early adopter of these electronics; so enamored that I once worked as a specialist (sales clerk) in an Apple Store. But then again, I lack other symptoms of ADHD, so perhaps we can scratch that diagnosis.

It's not that I don't love my friends who issue the invites or treasure the one-hour I have granted them. They are jewels to me, and guardians who would race like firefighters to a blaze if I needed their help. But I'm perfectly content seeing and conversing on Zoom, which gratefully abides by a clock, and sends warning when the time limit nears.

Since we can't hug or touch, what's the point of preferring six feet apart, masked, get-togethers? I look the same in person as I do on your device. Actually, that's incorrect; I do not wear makeup on Zoom and my attire is dull and comfortable.

For face-to-face meetings, I'd have to glam up, hook up undergarments, drape in flattering clothing, and wear open-toe shoes that honor my pedicure. Consider this extra prep time for live get-togethers: throw in transportation back and forth, and before you know it, my dear hour, that is my preference, has swollen to two or three!

I have to admit that my aversion to spending more than one hour engaged in conversation or activities dates back pre-Doris and pre-pandemic. If I were to have my preference, I would ask teachers to limit classes to 30 minutes. For that period of time, I can guarantee alertness and attention. Beyond that, though, my eyes veer from the instructor to the clock, wishing it could magically speed up, as in a time travel film. And if a mat should be involved in a session that stretches beyond my preferred time limit, I can predict a siesta.

And while I'm nixing dining invitations due to my stubborn time constraints, please consider the same "thanks, but no thanks" for your next board or card game. You will likely last until the final token or Ace is played, but I will be ready to call it quits after the first round.

But instead of scolding myself for swift exits, I should praise myself for remaining in situations more significant than the social gatherings just outlined. Consider: my first marriage lasted 30 years and my second 14. In neither case was I first out the door. Number one left to live her true self, and the second departed to his heavenly home.

Of course marriages can't be compared to Monopoly, Bridge, or restaurant meals. And spouses are certainly in a category more meaningful and deep-rooted than friends. But in excusing my rudeness in being first to leave, these decade- long unions certainly show a different side of me.

Unfortunately, I have to end this essay here, dog, walk. Thanks for understanding.

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