I have noticed a frightening phenomenon lately with my clothes. They seem to be horrified to be worn by me. Buttons are popping off preemptively, zippers are hiding, and hems are spontaneously unraveling – what the heck is going on here? I have been trying to figure out the answer to this phenomenon and I have come up with three possible and entirely plausible reasons why this is happening.
Reason 1: They heard about the friction issue with the thighs and they fear spontaneous combustion.
Reason 2: They value their status too much to be seen on such a mega-geek.
Reason 3: They are afraid that they won’t be able to bear the pressure of what I am going to attempt to squeeze into them.
Or perhaps it is a case of all of the above. Perhaps they spend time in the closet sharing stories about how my occasional Big Mac has made me a bit mc-chunky. Maybe they have been given inside information from the scale (which has always been a bold-face liar, but they likely do not know that). It could be that the skirt that blew its seam awhile back ratted me out. Or maybe it’s the pantyhose that have recently felt like they have been stretched to their limit that have been creating discord in the closet.
It could be that the speed with which I have escalated to a higher level of geekiness lately has caused them to be embarrassed to be seen on me. It’s hard to conceive that they couldn’t appreciate that weather radios are sexy given the fact that they have spent years with their very own weather radio at home, but perhaps I am giving my clothing more credit for intelligence than is due.
I must get to the root of this matter as getting dressed in the morning is becoming increasingly difficult. Indeed, the other morning as I opened the closet door and reached for one of my skirts I thought I heard a gasp. Oh my, some co-therapy and mediation may be in order…and perhaps one less Big Mac.
Day sixty-nine of the new forty – obla di obla da