I’m ready for my close up, Mr De Mille.

Upon arriving home every day, I strip down faster than Gordy “leech-on-balls” Lachance (of Stand by Me lore). It’s over quicker than a superhero relay, my friends. Shoes, jewelry, clothes; everything in its place, pyjamas on.

If you happened to be with me, as you turned to close the door (very well-mannered, thank you), you’d hear a soft whoosh and feel the air shift ever-so-slightly (as if a flea had suffered an embolism). You’d turn, questioningly, to discover that I’d transformed from haute to hobo.

The only suggestion that anything went down would be the wardrobe door, slightly ajar, and the gentle rocking of coat-hangers (my recent outfit hung as beautifully as a British racehorse). If you weren’t there, I’d resemble my 4-year-old nephew: nuded-up from the waist down (though at least I have the grace to wear grundies).

It’s with this naked premise that I tell you, when it came time to put my garbage out tonight, the problem of clothing rose up to haunt me like the Titanic in Ghostbusters. Despite consensus, I have pride. That, and my elevators move slower than an independent film, I’ll inevitably become stuck in a fashion nightmare the likes of which Celine Dion has never seen.

Do I go down in my kimono? I stand in front of the mirror and ascertain that no, I do not.

I look like a Japanese hobo. The real bind (pardon the pun): can I be assed putting on a bra? Somewhere in the distance, I hear strident laughter. Mmm, quite right, poignant-and-well-timed stranger. It’s only the grace of humanity and gravity which inveigle women into bras.

The task therefore becomes to look like I’m wearing a bra. I begin rifling through my wardrobe, to select appropriate camouflage. The result is a ridiculous concoction which makes me look like an eccentric artiste, circa 1927. Motley green scarf wrapped around my neck and down my front; flowy cardigan which (why do I own this?) one only wears to take out the fucking garbage; flourished with MC Hammer pants and flips flops.

I look like Norman fucking Lindsay, for sobbing out loud.

I’m at a loss as to how this marks progress, but. Entirely too much time has been spent on this endeavour. And so! Into the breach I go! My garbage in tow (figuratively and literally, yo).

About the wuc

I'm a chick living in Australia, working for the man. I hate office work with a passion usually reserved for James Cameron, but somehow I ended up with a career behind a desk, stapling my forehead at random intervals.

107 Responses to “I’m ready for my close up, Mr De Mille.”

  1. Your posts are music to my ears – a soothing balm for my oft-ignored funny bone. Love how you play with the English language – it’s like porn for grammar geeks.

  2. I can relate. In the door, off with the shoes, socks and jeans, on with the ratty shorts or workout pants. It does complicate shopping, taking out the trash (waiting till 3:00 AM helps) or walking to the mailbox. I’m lucky that much of the time I can be Sandra Bullock in The Net. I’m just waiting until they get the holographic system perfected.

  3. I wear casual clothes to the office, yet I’m exactly the same way. I’m perfectly fine at 5pm, but the second I walk in the door every thing touching my skin must stop touching it this very moment. But then, I put on yoga pants and a tank, and I’m great. And I can walk out to check the mail in that outfit. :)

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