The worst part of every day starts right now, right about 9:52 p.m. It’s about now that I’m running out of gas. I can’t read any more. I can’t unpack any more dishwashers, do any more laundry, run any more errands, or pay any more bills. It’s about now that I’m shot.
And right now, right when I just about fall asleep on my couch, I remember I have to pick out something to wear tomorrow, and a tsunami-size feeling of dread rushes in.
I hate picking out clothes. I hate shopping. Hate. Hate. Hate. I’d much rather give my sisters a hundred bucks, tell them my size, and ask them to shop for me. You can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the hatred of shopping out of the girl.
I have what my brother-in-law has deemed “mall feet.” As it turns out, any time I’m in a mall longer than about ten minutes, my feet just give up. It’s like they’re allergic to shopping. And clothes. And lots of people. It’s the strangest thing.
There’s an easy solution to this, you’re likely thinking: Just get up in the morning, fall into your closet, and go to work wearing whatever sticks. The trouble is that if I don’t pick out an outfit at night, I try on forty-seven different ones in the morning, which usually leaves me particularly annoyed and likely late because, inevitably, my shirt is too itchy or I have no shoes that match or the sweater that would go perfectly was worn the day before.
It’s a long process. It’s painful. You could even call it arduous.
So, here’s my complaint: If mechanics and pastors and orthodontists have uniforms, why can’t editors?
That’s it. I’m writing my senator.