It might start with a beaded tunic casting a sympathetic smile towards a highly neurotic silk blouse. “Oh, look”, it will say, “You’ve lost a button. It’s a shame she doesn’t take better care of you.” And then the silk blouse will obsess about this button until it is seething on its hanger. It will turn to the fuchsia sweater hanging next to it and sneer, “I don’t know how you can be so complacent with that oil stain so prominent.”, whereupon the fuchsia sweater, normally quite cheerful, will burst into tears because she had convinced herself that no one would even notice that tiny little stain. When she dries her tears, she’ll helpfully point out the dropped hem on the work pants hanging next to her, and so on, all down the line, until everyone turns and looks wordlessly upon the beleaguered white dress shirt with the massive red wine stain down the left side.
“Don’t look at me! I said don’t look at me!” the shirt will cry out, ashamed and trying in vain to turn away from the pitying looks of its peers. All the twisting and commotion will eventually shake the poor thing right off the hanger, where you had left it a month ago with every intention of looking up red wine stain removal tips on the internet. The sight of this formerly pristine shirt lying in a dejected, neglected heap on your closet floor will unite your clothes in a common cause, at which point they will condemn you in the name of their fallen comrade.
All of this will take place while you sleep, blissfully unaware that your clothes have just declared war on your lazy, neglectful, carbohydrate-overloaded ass.
Clothes are patient. They’ll wait until just the right moment; the big date, the annual convention, that important interview…that’s when they’ll strike. On your big day, you’ll pull out the clingy, wrap dress you scored a few months ago in a post-fall, pre-holiday plus extra 30% off the sale price sale. The memory of that shopping experience still lingers. The dress was a perfect fit and even self-critical you couldn’t help but preen and pose in the dressing room mirror thinking, “Damn, I look good”.
So how the hell did that dress become THIS hideous dress with the bulging boobage, the tight arm holes, and the back fat spillage? How did that happen? You’ll try on another outfit, and then another, with the same horrifying results each t ime. You’ll lower your expectations and pull out those larger sizes you swore you would never need again but kept anyways. It won’t matter. Blouses will pop cleavage buttons, committing hari-kari for the cause, pants will refuse to meet in the middle, zippers won’t zip, and you will cry. Don’t think you won’t. Because if their timing is perfect, and it usually is, you’ll go to your special whatever wearing the most shapeless, waist-less dress you can produce from the way back of your closet, with an ill fitting cardigan pulled over the mess as camouflage, and boots pulled on to hide your suddenly swollen calves.
You won’t get a second date, or that dream job, but guaranteed, you will get singled out and called on stage in front of all your colleagues, and your photo will be taken for the corporate newsletter.
The irony is that while your devious clothes are hanging in the closet celebrating their victory, you are planning a post holiday, pre-spring 40% off the sale price sale shopping spree. You’ll find a new, bigger, better party dress. When you get home you’ll pack up all that old crap and consign it. Clothes might have feelings but they are not very bright.
Even the colorful ones.
|up to no good|