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).

Published by 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 thoughts on “I’m ready for my close up, Mr De Mille.

  1. I was this way often when it was just me and Just’In in the apartment. We often lounged around in nothing, and often just because it was hot and we were hot. No air conditioning and lots of pheromones bouncing around? Can I get an amen? Oh, yeah.

    Now, we just duck into an empty, non-toddler-occupied hallway and make out like they do in Rome. And we’re very glad we had those years. And those pictures. :D

  2. Having had to leap out of bed at 6 am to answer the door this past weekend, I found myself having to make these decisions in a foggy haze, all the while limping because I leapt with my foot positioned in such a way as to twist my ankle. I’m quite sure it was in the “Japanese hobo look” that I wound up attired. I don’t really know. It may have been worse. Thanks for the good laugh.

  3. Let me start by saying you’re awesome.
    But then I am sure that is a common statement that has been made quite a few times before.

    And my god I agree…if any of my friends came to my house without telling me beforehand that they were coming, I don’t think they would be spared from a mild heart attack?

    1. Wucs, thanks Antara. And so true! When my friends spring a surprise visit, the time it takes the elevator to climb three floors is all I have to transform from mutant to human. (Luckily, my lift is as slow as George Bush.)

  4. Hilarious! And why? Because I do the exact same thing. In the comfort of my house, there is NO need to wear anything but sweat pants and the ugliest baggy t-shirts I can find. If I stayed dressed up I may feel obligated to not sloth around on the couch or put away the laundry. Who wants that?

  5. I’m sorry, minus the need to take out the trash (which is done in the morning), I don’t even bother to put more clothes on after the work clothes come off. It’s 29 degrees and walking about my apartment in my skivvies are as close to nude as I’ll get. No air conditioning and just a lovely stand up fan (which I move where ever I decide to plop my bottom for the evening).
    Awesome blog, I will definitely be following. Thank you for liking my most current post.
    Peace & Love

  6. oh god, we are in fact the same person inhabiting different continents…pj’s at the ready…eccentric artiste look circa 1927- I know it oh so frighteningly well…to bra or just to fake the bra by hiding all lumpy bits under flowery cardi and scarf and hunching slightly to complete the style? Yes, yes! You go girl, I’m right there with you, bin-ladies of the world unite :-)

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