the count starts today
When Scherezade moved from swingin’ Holland to not-so-swingin’ Sierra Leone, she purged a whole bunch of her clothes. I was lucky enough to get a huge box, and I responded to this luck by burying the box under my desk and ignoring it. I think I pulled a couple of things out: there was the reconstructed Jane’s Addiction tee (you can see me wearing it here whilst on vacation in Nova Gothic), and the skirt-that-was-really-more-of-a-belt that I wore to my birthday dancing last year. Mostly, though, the box lurked beneath my desk like a Miltonian Lucifer filled with funky garments.
As this weekend was the annual rummage sale at the church, and as this weekend was also part of our massive fall campaign to reduce clutter, I decided to chuck most of the box. I had already cleared this with Scherezade, by the way; I don’t just throw out other people’s clothing. In case you were wondering. But when I really cracked it open, I found a cornucopia of cool. I ended up keeping most of it, and made room in my closets by chucking decade-old work clothes that I’m too fat for now.
Yesterday I decided to wear one of these new-to-me black skirts. It was a lace-up skirt, knee length, solid construction. I chose a fitted black blouse to go with it, and I even accessorized with a silver necklace. All was going well until right before first period, when I was walking quickly between classes. “This skirt isn’t ankle length,” I thought. Then I realized that my skirt had fallen off, and I was wearing my underwear in the middle of Bat Masterson High.
Take a second to think about that. I’ll wait.
Fortunately, I was right outside my classroom door, so with a strangled curse, I hurled myself inside and yanked up the skirt. When I first put it on, I had been gentle with the lacing, not wanting to pucker the fabric unattractively. This time I yanked the ribbon as tight as it would go, then double-knotted the bow.
I peeked out to the hall. A few students smiled when they caught my eye. This was when I made a decision: I could be paranoid and imagine that every smirk was for me, every whisper a new transmission of my humiliation, every parent hours away from hearing about it over dinner. Or I could just tell myself that no one cared, that I was too quick for anyone to notice whilst wrapped in their early morning fog. So that’s what I did. I made it not happen and went on with my day.
(What was really funny was that, when I went home, the Boy greeted me with a long litany of his aggravations and woes, most of the slow niggling variety that come of being on an endless job-search. I listened patiently for 15 minutes. “Are you done?” I asked. “Not yet,” he replied, and went on for another 5. “Ok, now?” I asked. “Yeah, I’m done,” he sighed. “My skirt fell off at work.” “What?” “Yeah. If it’d been you, I think you’d still be in a fetal position.” “You’re right about that. Oh sweetie, I’m sorry.” “It’s ok. It basically didn’t happen.”)
Today, of course, couldn’t touch these operatic heights, but I did get insulted by the tech guy and I am in the centre of a strange struggle to establish a lunch club. I’m half-afraid and half-excited about what new horror will be uncovered tomorrow.
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Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*