That is amazing.
That is also… not me.
Here’s how I get ready in the morning:
8:28 a.m. Wake up.
8:30 a.m. Realize I have to pee.
8:31 a.m. Start to get out of bed.
8:31 a.m. Hear my roommate go into the bathroom.
8:31 – 8:45 a.m. Lie in bed, cursing his name.
8:45 a.m. Pee. Brush my teeth. Wonder what the hell is wrong with my hair.
8:50 – 9:15 a.m. Lose myself in an internet vortex.
Around 9:15, I start getting dressed.
For me, ‘getting dressed’ involves a complicated ritual of layering and de-layering various articles of clothing, with little regard for such trivialities as “matching” or “outside temperature.”
This ritual frequently involves scissors, safety pins, and occasionally crazy glue. I dress myself on Street Fighter setting*: the idea is to mish-mash everything with everything in a constant rotation until, at some point, ‘what I’m wearing’ with ‘what else I’m wearing’ magically collides in a veritable maelstrom of fashion genius.
That’s… not usually what happens.
What usually happens is 9:29. The magical thing about 9:29 is that it’s two minutes before my bus comes and is, therefore, the ideal time for me to leave the house if I want to end up with an inside-out skirt and a bag full of hair. Unfortunately, 9:29 is usually the time that I decide to look at the clock.
As a result, I end up frantically grabbing my bag and my coat and racing out of the house in whatever combination of ridiculousness I happen to be wearing at that moment. This results in my frequently being described as ‘quirky’ and ‘whimsical’ when in fact a better term would be ‘batshit bananas.’
What I’m wearing today:
Ummm. That is not an outfit, Laurie. That is a ‘collection of random items from your closet.’
I stepped onto the crowded bus at 9:31, swiped my pass, and squeezed into an open seat in the front. A man was pushing his way from the back of the bus.
“Ma’am, ma’am,” he said, until I finally realized he was talking to me. I turned to him as he held up a bright purple fistful of cloth, decorated in a dizzying geometric pattern that would look equally at home on Zack Morris or in the ‘free bin’ at the local thrift store.
“Your tights,” he said, almost breathless from the fight through the crowd. He held the cloth in front of my face. “They match my shirt.”
I laughed. “A little bit,” I agreed.
He nodded seriously and stuffed the shirt back into his bag. “I admire them,” he said, and then turned and made his way back into the crowd.
Well. I’m glad someone does.
* ‘Street Fighter setting’ is how I describe the process of achieving favorable results through the non-reproducible clicking of random buttons. Please see: Photoshop, my digital camera, and any and all audio-visual equipment.